


Revision

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jerry Bennett didn't remember much, didn't have a fairy-tale life, but it wasn't exactly bad and it definitely was getting better. Especially since that hot guy, Dean, moved into the neighborhood. Now if only his roommates Al and Gabe don't scare him off and Adrie, his coworker, doesn't snag him first…</p><p>original posting: 11-04-2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**PART ONE**  
"Well, all right, Jerry. You're taking a big step, but you can do it. You're ready. Good luck, and call us whenever you need to, okay?"

Jerry nodded. "Thanks, yeah, I will," he said. He took a deep breath, shouldered the backpack that held all his worldly possessions and stepped out into the sunshine, where little birds called cheerfully to one another as they swooped here and there in a clear blue sky dotted with puffy little white clouds, and on the horizon, a rainbow stretched from one end to the other.

Well, actually, it was pissing down rain and the sky was the color of dirty metal and no bird was fucking stupid enough to be out in that mess…but all the sunshine was implied.

He took a taxi to the address he'd be living at for the foreseeable future and hoped his roommates were as okay as they'd seemed when they'd last talked. Hell, they had to be good guys to take a chance on him.

Jerry was hoping hard that it'd all work out. It seemed perfect—the place was great, and he'd have his own bedroom, in fact, the whole third floor of the old house they rented. He'd loved the big, bright room, the tiny bathroom, there was even an alcove big enough to shove a desk and a chair and maybe a bookcase.

Less than a half hour later he got out in front of the tall, narrow house that had seen better days, but just like the first time he'd seen her, she radiated comfort and welcome. His gaze shifted to the third floor—where he'd be living. He frowned slightly, picking at the fuzzed edges of his mind, and the faint—very faint—sort of echo of having been in a rambling old house before. Jerry couldn't find a solid memory of ever living in a house before…actually; he had no memories of much, except vague, fractured snips of The Accident and somewhat clearer ones of the aftermath. Still, he was pretty sure if he'd lived in a big old house like the one he was looking at; he'd remember it, wouldn't he?

He paid the driver, hefted the backpack, and walked up the worn concrete front walk, brushing water off the tiger-lilies that lined it as he walked. Jerry climbed the porch steps and gazed about. The front porch was great—a deep old thing, with wide wood planks painted grey, wrapping around the front of the place right to the sides. It was as inviting as he remembered it being. One of his roommates had told him on his initial visit that they'd had epic parties on that porch, not that parties interested Jerry much. But, it meant the neighbors were cool and that was good. Jerry scoped out either side—old folks on the one side and kids on the other but little kids, going by the clunky plastic bikes and little plastic car sitting in the yard. Friendly, but not too friendly—there was a knee high fence around the front yard but the side yard was enclosed with a substantial stockade fence. Back yards were private, then.

The old boat of a car parked in the other neighbors' drive was pretty much a give-away that they were probably on in years. Their car was as elderly as they were, but it was in good, clean shape, obviously lovingly maintained and the thought made him smile. Classic cars should be appreciated—deserved to be treated well.

The wicker furniture sat on their porch was also old, but sturdy still, with pillows that were straight out of the eighties—cabbage roses and ivy. Jerry didn't even question that he knew what cabbage roses were and not so much more important things.

The front door at his new address opened. "If you're done surveilling the neighborhood, ya freak, then come on in, there's coffee."

Jerry grinned and jogged up the wide porch steps.

"Hey, Jerry, 'bout time you got out of the rain. Here, gimme your bag and go sit down." The guy stepped aside and Jerry stepped into warm, cookie-scented air. A shiver of appreciation ran up his spine. Jerry left his wet boots in the entryway and shuffled after him.

This was Gabe, Roommate the First, the one Jerry'd met when he was almost ready to leave the program. He was elfin—well next to himself nearly everyone was elfin. But there was something about Gabe that fit the description perfectly. He was compact, with bright, inquisitive eyes and quirky smile—he seemed an open and friendly type of guy.

From out of the dining room Jerry heard, "Is that the new roomie, tell him to get out here."

That was Roommate the Second, the one he'd met after going through Gabe's rather odd interview. Al was quieter than Gabe, calm, but the kind of calm that was probably hard-won. There wasn't the underlying slightly twitchy, maybe a little anxious, vibe that Jerry got from Gabe. Al was still, but had a sly sense of humor rounded out with a touch of geek and a bit of goof.

It was like, Jerry thought, they'd been created especially with him in mind. He kind of disbelieved his luck—had a feeling that luck was a commodity he was extremely low in, at least the good kind. But he was damn grateful to have fallen in with them—they seemed to be good people. They knew all there was to know about Jerry, at least what there was to know, and liked him, anyway. They'd agreed it was weird not knowing yourself really, but they weren't uncomfortable or god forbid, pitying. They just invited him—and his paycheck—to make a new life with them.

Jerry stood in the dining room doorway and watched his roomies get coffee together, Gabe setting out ridiculous mugs while Al cleared the table of papers and laptop.

"Okay, so, you checked in at Pete's yet?" Al asked, and Jerry swallowed. Nervous about new beginnings since he had no old ones to draw on.

"No, I thought I'd better get settled here first. I called to get my hours though—" Jerry dropped in a chair and scooted closer to the table. "I'm on the night shift tomorrow."

Al winced. "Man, that sucks. That means they're kind of tossing you right into the stew, no prelims."

Gabe set a cup down in front of Jerry. "No worries, Jer. I can tell you can handle it. Besides, a coffee joint is no comparison to a major accident and amnesia, right dude? I mean, what the fuck else can life throw at you?"

Jerry and Al stared at Gabe, open-mouthed with disbelief. Al yelled, "Gabe! Be more insensitive, ya pocket asshole."

Jerry's shocked gaze lit on Al. "Pocket asshole? Ew."

Al made a face. "I know, right? That didn't come out at all like it sounded in my head."

Gabe sat with his coffee and a box of cookies. He grabbed a handful before passing them to Jerry. "Look, I just mean Jerry's not a baby, he can take it. What good is it for us to act like he's got no shit to deal with? Are we gonna tiptoe around it or deal?"

Jerry took a couple of cookies out of the box and passed it on. He nibbled around the edges in thought. "Gabe's right," he said. "I don’t want anyone uncomfortable. It's something I have to deal with. Some days I deal just fine, some days…not so much. I'm gonna have to ask you now to just…not take any shit personal." He peered at Al. "I can get…kinda cranky."

Al just gazed back at him with big dark eyes, sympathetic and kind. "Okay, fair'nough." His gaze sharpened, and suddenly looked a lot less kind. "Now here's my warning to you. I only deal with so much shit before I reach my limit. Since we're being all honest and open an' shit with each other."

"Fair enough," Jerry repeated Al's words back to him. "I'll keep that in mind."

Gabe beamed at the both of them. ""Looks like we're starting a beautiful friendship.'"

Al wrinkled his nose and said, "You mean, 'this looks like the start of a beautiful friendship.'"

Jerry coughed softly and said, "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Al and Gabe said, "Hunh." and "Geek." simultaneously.

Jerry just wondered how the hell it was that he remembered lines from Casablanca but couldn't remember where the hell he came from.

+++

**three months later…**

It was five in the morning and Jerry had just washed the floor. While it dried, he went to the front, rolled out the green and white awning that read, "Pete's Café". He pulled the plastic chairs and tables out from the wall and wiped them down, tucked the cloth in his apron.

At that point, Adrie came strolling in and he decided it was time for a breather.

It was a little past six now. The weather was good, so he grabbed a cup of coffee, headed outside to watch the street come to life. A few more minutes and the college crowd would start filtering in. They were so fucking young and sometimes, they just made him tired…other times, they filled him full of…feeling good to be alive. Ever since the accident, Jerry tried not to take shit for granted and being around the kids helped. Their concerns, their problems, he helped when he could, listened, gave advice they probably ignored but thanked him for…it took him out of his own concerns for a bit.

His roommates nagged him to think about school—think about the future, getting himself back together, or like Al said, at least get laid, but Jerry wasn't worried about that. Not really. It was just…he knew that somewhere out there, there had to be, there _was_ someone for him. He'd made the mistake once of saying just that to his other roommate, Gabe, and fuck if those two bastards hadn't had Fievel singing at the top of his lungs for a week straight.

_"Somewhere, out there—_ shit!" Jerry cursed the earworminess of that damn song. Bastards. It was going to be in his head all damn day now….

 

One o'clock and Jerry got ready for the shift change. He tucked his apron behind the employee's room door and slid on his favorite jacket, an oversized Carhart, a Salvation Army find. The thing was huge around the middle but the sleeves were long enough to cover his wrists and that was what counted. He called out good-bye to his coworkers and headed home.

He made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner because both his roommates liked it. They watched TV together because they liked each other. Al had some work to catch up on so eventually he headed to his room, Gabe slouched out to their tiny patio to smoke a not-allowed-in-the-house cigarette, Jerry went to sleep and had nightmares all night long.

They were quiet nightmares, mostly nebulous, came nearly every night and he never remembered them. The only thing that changed was the way he woke up, crying, shaking, or so angry that it scared him. In all the dreams there was something, someone, who'd hurt him, but he wasn't sure how.

Some days he woke up missing a life he couldn't remember much of, just _so_ much. On those days, he'd get out of bed and make pancakes, and his roommates would make a fuss over him. It was a good system. Pancakes=heartache, need hugs. Cupcakes=happiness. Or, overstock at the café. Either way, it was a win-win sitch for everyone.  


+++

"Jerry, come out with us this Friday," Al yelled. "You'll thank me."

Jerry rolled his eyes and tried to run for his floor of the house.

"No running, dude." Al came around the corner, his tie undone and hanging lop-sided under his collar. His jacket flew through the air and landed over the couch back, his messenger bag plopped down to lean against the dining room wall. "Seriously. There's this new chick, she's coming," he said and toed off his shoes.

"Don't leave them there," Jerry said, "and don't set me up. We talked about this."

"Jer, dude—she's hot as hell, man. Really, like—fucking hot. And smart. Funny."

"You date her."

"I would but…"

"You're prejudiced. Plain and simple."

"I am _not._ She's just not my type."

"Right. You don't go for hot, smart, sexy women."

"Shut up. I'm beginning to think you don't."

"Don’t what?" Gabe said, slipping out of his room and under Al's arm. "Did you bring rolls?"

"Jerry doesn’t like girls."

"What? Yes he does, who said he didn't?"

"Women, not girls and no, I don't."

"What?"

"What?"

"I'm gay. Is. Is that going to be a problem?" Jerry's stomach dropped and he felt faintly queasy. There wasn't all that much personal he remembered after the accident: his name, he'd liked school and Dr. Pepper…and he was gay. And also, that he wasn't ashamed of it. He lifted his chin and grit his teeth, his eyes went narrow and he waited. Whatever happened, happened.

"You're gay." Gabe didn't ask it, he stated it, and his eyes roamed over Jerry and he looked a little confused. He bit his lip and looked at Al.

Al stared at Jerry, open-mouthed; surprised eyes the only thing Jerry could see for a moment, Al had them open so wide. He licked his lips and said, "Hunh."

Jerry waited, jaw still stiff, legs wide and his shoulders loose. Ready. He didn't have that much to pack and he could be out in a few minutes, to…somewhere….

Al said, "Hunh," again, and nodded. "Okay, there's this guy in the mailroom, he's really hot—and trust me, I can tell, not like most straight guys who act like they don't know, believe it, everyone knows—"

"Wait." Gabe held his hands up, looked up at Al and Jerry. "So, _you're_ gay, and _you_ didn't bring any rolls home. How are we eating chicken salad sandwiches without the rolls? Why did you let us keep trying to set you up if you don't like girls—?"

_"Women—"_

"Yeah, yeah, PC boy. Spill."

"Well, you guys seemed to be enjoying it so much…" Inside, Jerry was singing. He was right. They were great guys, he was lucky." Thanks, really, thanks, you guys."

Al and Gabe shrugged. Gabe said, "You're welcome. Now get your gay ass down to the corner and get rolls so we don't have to scoop chicken salad up in our hands."

Al said thoughtfully, "Restaurants serve it in lettuce cups…"

"Again, something we don't have."

Jerry snickered, "I'm going, I'm going— I also notice that when it's my night to make dinner, I make sure we have everything, just sayin'—"

"Your people are compulsively organized and nit-picky."

"Your people are short and ignorant," Jerry shot back and Al nodded.

"It's true, Gabriel. You are short and ignorant."

"You're tall and mean."

"And permanently tanned. And incredibly handsome. And smart, and cultured. Did I mention handsome?"

"I'm out," Jerry shouted and shut the door. On a chorus of 'duh's. He grinned all the way down the street, all the way through shopping and was still grinning when he set his bag of six loose rolls on the counter. The owner smiled back, and slipped a couple of chocolate chip cookies in the bag, free.

Pretty fucking good day.

He was headed back up the block and had just passed Pete's when he caught sight of a guy leaning against an ugly blue and primer-gray car, something old—in a junk-heap way, not in a classic way. The guy was good-looking. He turned his head towards Jerry.

He was damn good looking, actually.

Easy to see that, even with the douchy sunglasses blocking his eyes. Jerry blushed a little—he was obviously staring. It was so obvious, the guy tilted his head a bit towards him and Jerry decided head tilt was saying hello. So what the hell, he nodded back—and then quickly looked away and didn't run back home, just decided that a very brisk pace was good for the cardio-vascular system. A good, brisk, walk was good for you. Everyone knew that.

That was his story and he was sticking to it.

+++

The next afternoon he saw Ray-Ban guy again, this time leaving Pete's, chugging back a cup of coffee and heading towards his hideous car. Jerry was sorry he hadn't been on shift. He'd missed a perfect opportunity to…to…stare like a moron, more than likely. Jerry sighed. Yeah. Just before he shoved open the café door, he caught the guy looking right at him and risked a little smile. This time, the guy cocked an eyebrow over his Ray-Bans, but he didn't fling his coffee to the ground and ask Jerry what the fuck he was grinning at. So…that had to be a point in his favor, right?

 

After that, it seemed that Ray-Bans Guy was always around. Every morning, he'd come in and get a coffee, though never the same thing twice. Some days black, some days loaded with milk and sugar, sometimes with flavoring and whipped cream. He always said thank you, and in such a serious way Jerry had to fight to keep a smile in, and never took his glasses off. After a while, Jerry could even guess a bit at the guy's mood. He smiled on black coffee days and looked tired or…sad or something, on sweet coffee days. Jerry wondered if some days called for the sugar boost, wondered what the guy did for a living. Wondered if he was straight, or if not, if he was single. That, Jerry got no clue of.

He must live somewhere in the neighborhood, though, since he came in regular as clock-work and Jerry was surprised that he hadn't seen the guy around before this—no way could he miss a guy as hot as that. It got so that Jerry started calling the guy Ray, and maybe started making up a friendship in his mind, something that went beyond, "Coffee, black—thanks dude."

In his mind, Ray would rip his glasses off and say, "Oh my god, I've been looking for you everywhere—my soulmate!" And hold his arms open, and Jerry'd jump over the counter, rip off his apron and toss it. Ray would sweep him up in his arms and carry him out through a gauntlet of his clapping and cheering co-workers—

Sure, with his long ass legs dragging on the floor and knocking into tables, bowling his co-workers over with his big head. So sue him, life was a little boring, at least when he was awake.

 

An elbow to the ribs knocked him out of his less-than-satisfying fantasy, and he looked around to see Adrie trying to get past him. "You know, you should ask the guy out or something," Adrie said as she scooted past Jerry. The lunch crowd had just died down, and this was the time they were supposed to be quickly cleaning before the next wave.

"What the hell? What are you on about?" Jerry moved away from the window side of the counter and followed her back, fiddled with the pastry trays as an excuse to have followed her.

"Oh gosh, what was I on about, silly me. Sorry guy, if you're trying to be stealthy about it, you lose."

"Shit. You think he knows?"

Adrie stopped traying up the dirty cups and scrunched her nose in thought. Jerry thought the expression was awfully cute, but was afraid to tell her—she might like it, then again, she might hit him and the girl had a punch like a mule kick. "I can't really tell," she said finally. "It’s a weird vibe I'm getting from him. I mean, he watches you but…not sure what it is. He's either hot for you or he just really wants to be your friend. Or maybe kick your ass…?"

"Wow. Thanks a fucking lot, this talk was really helpful."

She flipped him off and went out to the front, leaving Jerry alone with his thoughts. He wiped the prep counter and thought about that, that maybe Ray just wanted to be friends. Friends was good, you could never have too many friends. Sure. A sharp little stab of disappointment angled through him at the thought that that was all Ray was going to want.

Jerry went back out front himself, smiled at the next customer in line, and went through the spiel on automatic. Whatever. What did Adrie know anyway? Ray was probably dying to get some of Jerry. Hell yeah, he wanted some of thi—"Oh. Hi…I. Hello."

Ray, who was standing right in front of him.

"Hey Sasquatch—ur—shit." Ray was looking very embarrassed and twisting some weird pendant thing he wore on a leather strip through his fingers—very sort of neo-eighties hippy, but what the hell. He was hot enough to be forgiven for it. "Sorry for that, dude."

Jerry grinned. "I am tall. But I'm not owning hairy."

"Dude—you seen yourself? You need a haircut bad. And the beard. Grizzly Adams called, he wants it back." Ray looked a little startled himself, and then blushed a bit, and grinned a bit, and Jerry wondered if it'd be too soon to jump over the counter. Still, the beard had been insulted. He'd cultivated that beard. It made him look…less vulnerable. Tough. Manly. "So, you won’t be wanting any coffee then?"

"I do want some—if I can get it without extra added spit." Ray kept on grinning.

Jerry was doing cartwheels in his mind. Holy shit, Ray was hot _and_ funny. If insulting. "Okay, but you don't know what you're missing…"

Adrie crossed the floor and threw him a thumbs up because she was corny. And embarrassing. Thank god Ray just grabbed his coffee and left before she started in on show tunes. Jerry couldn't help smiling at the spot Ray had vacated. Life had suddenly become better. Marginally better, with possible potential for an upswing. Finally.

That evening, he headed into his tiny bathroom with a pair of scissors, took out his razor and shaving cream and bid his beard a fond farewell. It was odd how, as the beard came off, it was like looking at a faintly familiar stranger….

 

+++

So, Al got it in his head that the perfect way for Jerry to meet guys was to go to a ballgame, and he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Gabe bowed out, since he actually had a girlfriend and refused to be part of what he called the mating dance. Jerry was pretty sure Al just wanted someone to keep him company and was afraid to ask.

Since Jerry was a nice person, he said yes to the game even though baseball made him yawn in the way slasher flicks and daytime television did—it was irrelevant to his life and interests and made no fucking sense at all. In retaliation he forced Al to buy him a shit ton of food.

Food was great; food was just—well, kind of a thing with him. Great big cheeseburgers dripping with grease, mounds of fries almost white with salt, anything from the candy aisle and double that from the soda aisle was perfect comfort food for him. He got an inexplicable feeling sometimes when he scarfed stuff like that down—with the smell of greasy fries and meat, he was less alone. Maybe his family had eaten like that. Maybe eating like that was an echo memory of those times…whatever, hotdogs with onions and relish and sauerkraut and curly fries were the bomb, as he informed Al.

Al hit him. "Nobody in real life talks like that."

"Can't help it, that just how I roll."

Al hit him again. "Once more and your ass is out in the parking lot."

"Threats, threats, that’s all I get from you," Jerry muttered. He stuck the straw of his coke in his mouth and sucked reflexively, gazing around the stands and settling in to people watching. Gabe had told Jerry once that his people watching was more like profiling and he'd laughed—he snorted now remembering.

"Ew, stop it."

Jerry stepped on Al's foot, then left his foot there and Al ruffled his hair like he was a little kid. Al even had that fond uncle look on his face, and it made Jerry snort again—Al jabbed him again and then, they kind of leaned in to each other. Jerry settled, feeling almost, sort of, close to content. Elbow to elbow, they watched the game, Jerry glancing around from time to time. He sneaked the occasional look at Al, the way the sun highlighted his dark chocolate skin, made it rich and velvety.

Al was such a good looking guy…and here he was, sitting in a ball park with his gay roomie, instead of taking some hot girl out for…whatever. He felt a deep flash of guilt. Al really shouldn't be wasting his time baby-sitting him. Jerry knew it was totally selfish on his part; he liked Al looking out for him, it was like having an older brother. Al almost filled an achy, empty spot inside him and Jerry hated to give that up but. For Al's sake, he'd have to talk to Gabe. Operation Find A Mate needed to have its focus shifted...just imaging Gabe's eyes lighting up for that made Jerry smile.

Jerry was still smiling when he lifted his head and holy crap, there he was—Hot Guy Ray, a couple of rows down and looking up at him with…horror painted all over his face. What the hell?

Suddenly, weirdly, the guy seemed to be furious—he jumped out of his seat. Jerry jumped up himself, and Ray did a double-take, glared at Jerry and shook his head. Looked like he was talking to himself, as he weaved his way past people who instantly obliged him by shifting out of his way, more sort of a shying away from him in fear than politness—

So. Apparently, Hot Guy Ray was also Psycho Hot Guy and possibly a bigot. Unless he thought Al and he were here on a date in which case, he was a homophobe as well as a bigot. Great.

Jerry decided to follow the jerk anyway. "Gotta pee."

"Ew. Don't share and don't tell me if you have sex in the bathroom with that guy."

"Wha—are you serious? First of all, kind of stereotyping and second—those bathrooms are toxic. And I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm not blind," Al waved him off. "Go; go—this game ain't gettin' no better." But he winked and smirked and Jerry flipped him off. Al was crazy. He wasn't chasing anyone. Sort of.

Jerry just happened to be wandering around near the vendor booths when he caught sight of Ray. The guy did another double-take and stumbled to a stop. With the stupid glasses on, it was a little hard to read him, but his body language screamed uncomfortable and awkward. His hand went up to the ugly ass necklace, but he made a visible effort not to touch it and wiped his hand on his thigh instead.

"Hey…the pretzels. Good, I mean," Jerry said, jerking his chin at the stand. Wow…articulate as hell.

"Yeah. You saw me, didn’t you? Looking at that—that guy. I thought I knew him. Are you friends?" And the fucker sounded so judgmental that it set Jerry off. Fucking bigot homophobic bastard.

"Wow, douche bag. _That guy's_ my very dear friend and you can just go to hell, you judgmental ass—"

"No, no, that's not—look, let's just say I had a horrible experience with someone who looked like your friend—I'm going to kill Cas and his little pocket universe bullshit—"

Jerry blinked…okay, whatever the fuck _that_ was, maybe it was time to get out of the line of fire. "I gotta go back, Al's waiting and I—gotta go."

 

Ray looked a little panicky, and started to rush forward, but at Jerry's flinch away, he took a step back, held his hands up. "No, wait, I'm not crazy—well, yeah, maybe a little but not in a ax behind my back way."

Jerry couldn't believe he actually laughed at that and Ray beamed. "Seriously, man. I'm not what you think," Ray said. "I'm just, just—a guy at a ballgame. It's like the first time in years I've been and it's…weird that I ran into you here," he said, smiling like it was Christmas.

"Yeah…um. It's weird to see you outside of Pete's, too. But nice."

"Yeah." Ray coughed and shifted, hands fidgeting at the edge of his jacket before shooting up to smooth down the short hairs at the back of his neck. Jerry smiled. Ray's' little fidget dance was awkward, sweet, and…felt familiar. "I just got in the area and I'm trying to find my special places. You know, my best coffee place, my favorite diner—the place I'll always go?"

"Is that so? Well. You're complicated, aren’t you?"

"Hey, what can I say? I've got layers."

Ray beamed at Jerry as he said it, such a wide, bright, kind of goofy smile that Jerry was helpless to do anything but smile right back. "Okay," he said, "we can call it layers…"

"Right. Right. So. I'll let you get back to your, ah, friend. And I'll see you. See you at Pete's. Around. And…s'good look for you, the no beard. I like it. Not that it matters if I do or not—y'know."

"Oh, no, that's—that's—thanks. Thanks," Jerry stuttered, while the rest of his brain did internal fist pumps. "Okay, bye, Ra—" he stopped. What the hell was the guy's name?

Ray hesitated, held out his hand and said, "I'm—my name is. It's Dean," he said and seemed to wait, so Jerry grabbed his hand and pumped it once or twice and sighed inside when Dean just let his hand drop, no hesitation, no lingering touch in return. Straight. Because Jerry's luck was like that.

"Hi, Dean, my name's Jerry, but you probably knew that from the name tag."

"Yeah, yeah, it’s strange. I mean, knowing a person's name without knowing them. Oooh-kay, so I gotta go—see ya Monday, Jerry."

"Okay, Dean." Jerry watched Ray—Dean—leave, shook his head. Dean was definitely odd but still, awfully cute. And the name suit him for some reason. Dean….  
Yeah, he liked that name.  
+++  
The next time he saw Dean, it was at the corner of his street. Jerry stopped, frowned. There was no reason for the guy to be there—there was nothing on his street but a bunch of old houses and a tobacco shop on the end of the block. Jerry shook his head and let the little quiver of unease fade. Sure, the tobacco shop, that was probably reason Dean was there. Still, how close did this Dean live, anyway?

The guy was walking along, staring at his feet, and the chill of unease was back. That wasn't right, Dean should be heads up, paying attention and not—and Jerry caught himself. _Not what?_ It wasn't like his block was the Wild Wild West or anything. Nothing on the block to look out for. Still, he couldn't get rid of the feeling until Dean was a few feet away.

"Hey, Jerry!" he said, and seemed genuinely surprised to see him. He glanced around, frowning, and then back at Jerry. "Don't tell me you live here?"

"Ah, yeah…do you?"

Dean lifted a creased, smudged index card up, his eyes went narrow as he studied it and then shot wide open, affording Jerry a happy second in which he tried to memorize how green Dean's eyes were….

"Christ," Dean snapped, and rolled his eyes. "The guy's as subtle as a fucking brick to the head. Clarence Street? Really?"

Jerry didn't speak a word because it seemed Dean was having a conversation with himself and he felt it'd be rude to interrupt. He waited patiently until Dean's eyes were on him again. "Hi." He waved.

"Yeah, hi. I've got—" Dean fanned the card in the air. "Appointment, supposed to be a place for rent here."

Jerry couldn't remember anything for rent locally, but Dean pointed down the street towards a skinny duplex and Jerry nodded. Right, right…he'd forgotten about the odd couple who'd moved out suddenly in the middle of the night. So, Dean was moving in? Jerry smiled slowly. This was no doubt a sign. A perfectly huge and flashing-neon sign.

"So," Dean grinned. "What's the action like on Clarence Street? Any desperate semi-suburban housewives I should know about?" he asked and wiggled his eyebrows in a disturbing way.

Jerry kept smiling, even though he was experiencing the odd feeling of total exasperation mixed with the urge to punch Dean right in his face, layered with a ridiculous disappointment totally out of proportion to the time he's known Dean. "I don’t know, I'm not. I don't—"

"Sure, sure, too busy to hook up. You're not, you don't look like that kind of guy anyway," he said and Jerry was pretty sure Dean blushed a little, too.

"Sure," Jerry said and jerked his thumb behind him. "Well, that's my place," he said, just as Al and Gabe came out.

Dean did a huge double take, a convulsive two-step that nearly dropped him off the curb. "You live with—and that guy—you, you—" He stopped and took a deep breath, grabbed the bridge of his nose in a grip that looked hard enough to break it. "Cas, I'm going to kick your ass, and not even give a shit when I break my foot on it," he muttered and Jerry wondered once again how someone so weird could still be hotter than the sun.

Dean looked up at Jerry and gave him a writhing grimace probably meant to be a smile, dug a thumb against the thing hanging around his neck. Playing with it must be a nervous habit, Jerry thought. Dean caught him looking and dropped his hand, shoved it in his pocket and said, "So…roommates, hunh? They look like, like…great…guys."

Meanwhile the great guys were staring at Dean like he was a vampire cockroach or something. It took Jerry a second before he realized that they probably thought Dean was an "old friend" from back in the bad old days. Well, with the tatty leather jacket and the barely concealed sneer, he did look a little—a lot—sketchy. And those jeans, too tight across the thighs and that hole that let his knee peek out, and that worn patch under the front pocket that Jerry's finger demanded to be inserted into…oh shit. Think about something else, gross things— _zombie stripper grandmas, actually sentient fingers—_

Jerry could feel his cheeks turn red and Al and Gabe looked even fiercer and came off the porch like Crockett and Tubbs.

"Oh—ah! Hey, just in time to meet Dean," Jerry blurted, "You know… _Ray?_ But not Ray, Dean. From…Pete's." Jerry wished for a brief non-fatal heart attack, just to distract everyone from staring at each other like…like…basilisks. Except for Dean, who was mouthing _'Ray?'_ and looking adorably confused. Jerry looked heavenward. He did not just refer to Dean as adorable. Did. Not.

Oooh," Gabe crowed, both index fingers pointed at Dean because he was subtle that way, "Ray! Right! Hey, Ray—I mean, _Dean._ It's nice to meet you."

Al was considerably less enthused. It was obvious from the look he gave him that Dean, though he'd been downgraded from 'vampire cockroach', was still hovering right above 'cockroach' in Al's mind. Al held his hand out and Jerry winced, already anticipating the alpha pissing match about to take place, but Dean just pumped his hand twice and let go. "Good to meet you, Al," he said.

"Guys," Jerry said, "Dean's a _friend,"_ with heavy emphasis on the friend. Al and Gabe both made the "Oh, I see," face and both looked disappointed for him. It made Jerry's chest glow warm. They were great guys.

"We're headed out to The Olive Pit, you guys wanna come with?" Gabe asked.

Dean shook his head. "I'd love to, thanks, but I gotta take care of this little matter of where to live, so…another time?"

Gabe said, "Sure, in fact, come to dinner tomorrow, why don't you? Like, a welcome to the neighborhood, thing."

"Well, that'd be great but I don’t know if they'll rent to me yet," Dean said.

"Oh, don’t worry about it," Al said, his face still sporting a sour expression. "They'll rent to anybody."

Jerry hissed and elbowed Al, and Dean just shot him a look. "Well, thanks for the heart-warming support. Jer, I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Bye, Dean. Good luck," he waved and then wished he could smack himself for being a girl. Dean gave him a sideways smirk, his eyes crinkled at the corner and for some reason, Jerry could hear, "Princess," in Dean's voice, plain as if he'd actually spoken it. It kind of made Jerry want to flip him off, especially when Dean laughed before heading down the block.

"I don’t know, Jerry. I don’t trust that guy. I wish—" Al shook his head and said, "I don't want you getting hurt."

"Fuck Al, it's a little late for that. Dean is." Jerry sighed, tugged at the hem of his t-shirt and just managed to keep from wrapping it over his head and hiding from the facts. "Sadly, he's very, very straight. My luck runs true as always, right into the shitter."

"Aw, hun. Don’t say that. You found us, right?" Gabe patted him on his arm, and Al took his other side. "C'mon," Gabe said, "we'll get you extra garlic bread, okay?"

+++

Seven o'clock in the morning, Jerry jerked awake to an odd sound. It took him a second to get he was hearing thumping against the front door—that he could hear it all the way to the third floor. Someone wanted in and in a damn hurry. He could hear Al cursing and stumbling down the front hallway. He heard the front door open. He heard Dean.

"'Morning! Sleepin' in?"

He heard Al. "It's Saturday. It's seven in the morning! It's seven in the morning on a _Saturday!_ "

"Yeah…like I said. Sleeping. In?" he head Dean repeat, like he was talking to a simple child. Shit. He leaped out of bed and struggled into a pair of flannel sleep pants and practically raced downstairs.

"Hey, Dean, hi—" Jerry belatedly realized he was at the door bare-chested, and even if Dean didn't care, it was half the way to some of Jerry's favorite fantasies. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to look casual. "What's up?"

"I came to ask if you could give me a hand moving—I'll feed ya." He grinned like he was offering Jerry the moon. "Whatever kinda frou-frou salad you want and beer—whatya think?"

Jerry stared at him, still trying to process everything through a sleep-muzzy brain.

Al huffed quietly to himself. "I'm gonna leave you and Sunny here to your own. Going back to bed, like normal, people," he muttered, heading back for the stairs. "Man comes in all loud 'n shit like it’s the afternoon instead of the ass-crack of the morning…"

Jerry just kept grinning at Dean like they both couldn't hear Al bitching all the way back to bed.

"So—a big, fat salad in exchange for back-breaking labor?"

"Well, gosh, as tempting as that sounds, if I'm going to have to sweat, I want some goddamn meat," he said and then, "Oh, shit," when Dean's eyes widened and his lips curved in a smirk. "I mean, you know what I mean. I want burgers…or…or possibly cheesesteaks. With extra cheese. And meat. And some onions. Lots of onions. And fries too. With cheese."

"Right? Wait—what? Really?" Dean looked so shocked Jerry cracked up.

"Dean, dude—what? Are you a vegan? I mean, if you are, that's cool and all, I guess I could do a salad…I guess," Jerry said doubtfully.

"I don't—" Dean pointed at Jerry, outrage making his eyes go impossibly wider. Wide green, beautiful eyes…Jerry wrestled himself back on point, to hear Dean yelp," _—you_ , you look like a vegetarian kinda person."

"Yea-ah, I'm so sure." Jerry struck a muscle man pose and wiggled his eyebrows—not as elegant as Dean but he made them move somewhat. Dean coughed and looked away and Jerry remembered that he was half naked. And Dean was straight. Jerry sighed, dropped his arms. Straighter than straight, damn it.

+++

It turned out Gabe and Al ended up helping too, much to Jerry's relief. Dean didn't have all that much, so he said, but apparently, the little rented van was kind of a clown car. Every time they made a new trip to it, there was something else tucked in a corner or under a seat. Dean looked surprised and apologetic each time…and he got that funny little screw of the lips and a furrow in his forehead just like he did when he talked to himself. Jerry expected it, but Dean just shook his head and kept silent.

One of the last things that came into the apartment were a couple of boxes of books Dean and Al fished out of the finally empty van. Wonder of wonders, Al and Dean managed to thaw towards each other as Dean suckered Al into loading the book shelves with his books.

"Kurt Vonnegut? Frank Herbert—wait, you read Dune?" Al asked, his hands full of the slightly swollen paperbacks.

"All of them."

" _Dude._ Dude. Props. That was an act of motherfucking dedication."

 

Al sounded properly awed and Dean grinned. "I know, right?"

Jerry watched, kind of awestruck and totally lost. Gabe shrugged. "At least they're talking," he said when Al suddenly yelped and leaped back from the box. Gabe ducked behind Jerry—Jerry took a step back anyway, fully expecting a mouse or worse, but it seemed that Al was. Smiling. Beaming.

At Dean.

"Nostrilla. Really?"

Dean shrugged. "Hey, I got layers," he said, and winked at Jerry. Through an act of incredible willpower, Jerry managed not to giggle and blush and throw his underwear at Dean. Jerry slapped himself in the forehead when finally Dean turned away, grabbed a box and headed out to the kitchen. Damn Dean—his unfairly hot self turned Jerry into a tall and unattractive thirteen year old girl every time.

 

 

Al and Gabe left after the last plate was in the last cupboard and Jerry shrugged his jacket on, getting ready to leave with them, but Dean asked him to stay. He held up a slice of pizza. "Help me finish off this shit, dude."

They sat on the couch in the narrow living room, the TV silent in one corner, a single lamp on in the other corner. Dean kept looking around, a slightly lost, slightly stunned expression on his face. "Wow," he muttered finally.

 

"You look a little stymied," Jerry said.

"Stymied. Ha. Yeah, you could say that. I'm…this is a big place for one person, y'know?"

Jerry looked around the narrow living room, the tiny afterthought of a kitchen and said, "You must have lived in some small places. Not that this isn't nice," he hastened to say.

"Nah, I know, it’s just…I've never lived on my own. Well, I mean, I have…just never liked it much. I've mostly lived with my brother—" Dean stopped, stared at the beer in his hand before taking a long, serious, drink.

Jerry took a chance—it was obviously not an easy subject for Dean—and asked, "Your brother, is he…gone?"

Dean just nodded and didn’t say anything; his knuckles went white as his grip on the bottle tightened.

Jerry sighed. "I…I don’t know if I have a brother or not. I don’t remember my family."

The bottle jerked in Dean's hand, and he sat it carefully on the low table in front of them, then slumped against the couch back. "It's okay, dude. You don’t have to tell me anything."

"No, I want to. I mean, it’s not like there's a lot to tell. The first thing I remembered, the only thing at first, was the accident. I woke up in a bed in a rehab center, screaming my damn head off."

"Jer," Dean said, his sturdy, wide palmed hand coming down, warm and pleasantly rough, on Jerry's bicep. Jerry shook his head and smiled.

"I had this memory of—of flying through a car windshield but that's not right, is it, because I don't have any scars, not the kind you'd get from going face-first through a windshield, right? And the center, all they know is I showed up on their doorstep, all zombie-like, on the day an unknown benefactor had paid for rehab for a Jerry Bennett—me." At Dean's incredulous look, Jerry laughed, shook his head. "I swear to god, it's all true—like a fucking fairy tale, I know. Anyway, I went through some withdrawal there, and they didn’t even know what I was hooked on, no tracks, y'know, and I was jonesing for something bad, something, I guess, that was better than booze and pills…whatever that was."

Dean took a breath, but didn't say anything. He kept his head down, shaking it, shaking it, until Jerry wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist and pulled. "Hey, that was…that's behind me and I'm fine now, I really am. But you need to know that I'm an addict, you know? Because I want to be friends. I want to tell you the truth."

Dean still wouldn't look at Jerry, but he muttered. "It's okay. You didn't know. What's important is it's okay now."

"Yeah, sure, it's so okay you can't look at me now, but. I get it. I think…people have some kind of expectation of me that I can't meet. I'm sort of a disappointment," he said and tried to smile but couldn't quite get it to stick.

Dean's head jerked up. "No, Jerry, you're not! You've never been a disappointment to me. I mean, y'know, since I've known you, you've been a great guy, a terrific guy. Just…a really great guy who deserves a chance to have a good life and I'm sorry I'm in the way, but I just…" He stopped and shrugged. "I don’t know. I just want you to meet a great girl and get married and have tons of kids and…be happy."

Jerry's heart crashed and burned. He swallowed the flaming pieces caught in his throat. Okay, so…okay. Dean liked him. Just…he wasn't ever going to like him like that. But Jerry couldn't help feeling that Dean cared more than that. Damn it, Dean _did_ care more; it was in his eyes and the set of his mouth whenever he met Jerry's eyes, the way he curved towards Jerry no matter where he was, like Jerry was—was—a compass point, whatever.

Jerry raked both hands through his hair and ignored the way the movement drew Dean's eyes to him. Okay. Maybe Dean didn't even know. Maybe all it needed was for Dean to get it. Jerry could kind of…coax him to see. Or get his ass handed to him but hell; it was worth it to try at least. He had to try. Tonight, though, was not the night to tell Dean he was gay. Dean obviously had stuff he had to deal with and it wasn't right to saddle him with more, not just yet. Jerry moved his hand from Dean's wrist to his elbow. "Hey. You're a great guy too. If I had a brother or sister, I hope they cared half as much as you."

Dean stood, set the bottle down and wiped his face. "Okay, dude, love ya, but I gotta throw you out now. How about I pick you up tomorrow and drop you at work? It's on my way."

"Um, sure," Jerry said, kind of startled at the rapid change of subject—and the rapid acceptance of his confession. Jerry wasn't about to look a gift horse, so he just said, "Okay, sounds good."

"Good, good—you want me to walk you back?"

"I think I'm pretty safe, Dean, half a block is not a hike and Clarence Street is not exactly Dodge City."

"Yeah, of course, right, safe, I keep forgetting…"

Jerry waved good-bye to a strangely pensive Dean standing in his apartment doorway. Dean waved back, one quick jerk of his hand, and tucked his fingers in that necklace. Jerry headed towards home. He was thoroughly confused, but hopeful that Dean really did not care about his past. Dean seemed like a stand-up guy, occasional weirdness aside.

Jerry sighed. He's come out of whatever hell he'd been in remarkable unscathed—clean, healthy once he'd totally kicked, not too beat up, only one weird tattoo that someone had told him not to worry about because it really was not satanic at all, and with all his teeth…Jerry unlocked the front door to their house and quietly padded up the stairs in his sock feet. He stripped and stretched out on his bed, and thought of Dean. Dean, with the weird way he ran hot and cold, his unfounded belief that Jerry was a good guy, his occasional bursts of oddness and to call it that was being charitable....

The man was a fucking—a fucking riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a—a—a taco. Or something.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000qx164/g350)

  
Jerry refused to let Dean's probable non-interest keep him from being friends. It worked—they were friends. And that was great…just, since Dean wandered into his life he hadn't really looked at any other guys. He'd seen interest in other guys, noticed the way they looked at him—and some of those guys were insanely hot. But he couldn't bring himself to act on it. Because there was a stupid part of his brain that kept telling him he was Dean's. No one had to tell him just _how_ stupid that was.

At some point while he'd been angsting against the counter like a Harlequin heroine, Dean had slipped into the shop and taken a table against the back wall. He had his sunglasses shoved up on his forehead and looked like he'd had a spectacularly bad night. He had circles under his eyes and his eyes were so red, the green of his irises looked artificial. Jerry walked over, frowning in concern for Dean.

"Dude, what the hell? Are you okay?" Dean looked up at him, and Jerry took a step back. He lusted after Dean, sure, but not enough lust in the world could make up for standing in a puddle of puke. "Erg. You've got puke face."

Dean shook his head. "Not sick, man, just. Jer, dude…can I get a black coffee, the biggest you got? Fuck." He rubbed at his eyes and dug a thumb into his temple trying to massage out what Jerry figured had to be a fucker of a hangover, from the looks of things.

"Coming up—I'll bring it to you."

Dean looked at him with eyes so full of gratitude that Jerry pinked up a little. It was nice to have Dean look at him like that, like he was someone important, even if just for a moment. "You're a good guy, Jer. Thanks. I've got a while before my shift starts and I _need_ that caffeine."

He came back with coffee and heard Dean arguing with someone on the phone. "Yes, you should bring me back—I'll just mess things— _yes,_ I've been getting the care-packages, _Mom—_ no, I don’t mean—no, really I do appreciate—I gotta go."

"Was that your…mother?" Jerry frowned. Odd, Dean didn't seem the type to check in with his mother. Beside, that was a not very nice tone to take with one's mother. If he had a mom he wouldn't treat her like that…and then he remembered that he was an addict and god knows how he treated his mother.

"Unh, yeah. Mom. Mom's a pain in the ass," he began, but when Jerry looked askance he went on, "but a great old gal. Just great."

"Hmm. So, what's all this, then," Jerry's gesture encompassed all of wrinkly, slightly smelly and purple bags-under-his eyes-Dean, "—the wages of sin?"

"What? Oh. Not booze, just…research. For this job I'm on."

"I thought you were a mechanic."

"Did I say? I don’t remember saying."

"I…didn't you? I thought…maybe I assumed."

"Could be, you ass. Anyway, yeah."

"What kind of research does a mechanic do?"

Dean gave Jerry a twisted little look of annoyance that made Jerry smirk. "We research! I'm looking for a carburetor for a '67 Chevy Impala…" Dean made with the strange little hesitation thing he did from time to time, like Jerry was supposed to do something. He smiled wryly when Jerry just shrugged.

"You mean like that car the Dukes of Hazard drove, right, the General Sherman or what—"

"No! _God._ That was a '69 Dodge Charger and it was the General _Lee_ for fuck's sake! Didn't you ever watch the show?"

"I…no? I liked old movies—like, old black and white movies.

"The Mummy? Dracula? Like that?"

"Yeah, and Casablanca and the Maltese Falcon and D.O.A. and—"

Dean grinned at him, wide and happy and the shadows under his eyes paled, and his eyes went a dark mossy green and Jerry liked that, a lot. A lot. "Okay, so your taste isn't all in your ass." His eyes wandered to the counter where Adrie was trying not to stare. "Like, I know you've _got_ to be trying to tap that."

"No, not really, Mr. Enlightened."

"Dude, Jerry, I'm embarrassed for you! Step up, ask her out. Trust me. You guys, you're…you look like you're made for each other." And he gave Adrie a look so sad, so sweet that Jerry's heart broke right in two.

_Oh._ He got it. Now he knew why Dean came every day to Pete's, and hung around the counter longer than he had to, why he talked to Jerry all the time. Jerry felt like an idiot. Hated the hot punch in the center of his chest. It was stupid anyway. Wasn't like he _like_ liked Dean, he only lusted after him. Period, end of story. It was just a stupid crush. All he'd been hoping for was a couple of blowjobs, not roses and candlelight dinners and walks on the stupid beach. Bitch. He swallowed it all down and forced a grin.

"Nah, Adrie's not exactly my type." Dean started to protest but Jerry talked right over it. "She's a great girl though, she really is. And she's hot, yeah. Just…I'm looking for something else." And again, he'd said something somehow to piss Dean off, the damn primadonna. "What?"

"Nothing…something different, hunh? Like what?" Dean scowled. "Who? The new chick?"

"No, not Ginny and no one you know at all. And not your business, Dean. My private life isn't your concern."

Dean froze, his face going a little pale. "Yeah, I know that," he said and it sounded like he'd pulled the words over ground glass. He stood abruptly. "Gotta go. I gotta call my—my—mom."

Jerry waved him off, and sighed. Failure, yes, what had just occurred was pretty much the definition of it. He dropped his head, scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Yo, loser—you work here or not?"

"Coming," he sighed. The new girl, Ginny, got a bit on his nerves sometimes. She was hysterical in small doses but had a tendency to overly-sarcastic comments on…everything. Still, in the interest of a harmonious workplace, he put up with her shit and occasional bouts of moodiness. And to be honest, most of the time, she was good company. Just, not now.

He was filling the coffee maker with water when Adrie propped her chin on his shoulder, wobbly on her tiptoes. "So? Why so pensive, Spike?"

"Hey, Adrie…so. Dean, he… the way he was looking at you today…well. He's definitely not batting for my team. He, unh, really likes you. You should ask him out because he's really kinda sweet and too shy to do it himself and…and." Jerry sighed, and hoped Adrie didn't notice how his voice shook. He blinked a few times. God. Fuck Dean for turning him into that massive thirteen year old girl again….

"Oh. Oh sweetie. Oh shit. That…that sucks. For fuck's sake, I can't go out with him, not when you—"

"No, no. Don't even think that. Listen, it would make Dean happy and I'm stupid enough to think that's all that matters. So…it's okay. Okay?" Jerry worked up a smile and dropped it when Adrie winced. "Really."

"If you're sure…"

Jerry nodded and kissed her forehead, and then grabbed a cloth and went to wipe down the tables.

Ginny was leaning against a table when he looked up, wrapping a long strand of chestnut hair around her finger. She smiled at him, part leer, part sympathy. "Hey, if it's not happening with you and Adrie, I've got a great way to get over it—lots of greasy popcorn, movies full of blowing shit up, it could be fun—"

"I'm gay," he said and pushed past her.

Later that night, he felt like shit about the way he'd been with her and figured he'd have to do something nice to make up for being a douche. As soon as he could think about anything but the phone call he'd gotten from Adrie that evening.

"Dean and I are going out—you're sure it's okay? I can still tell him no," she'd said.

"No," he'd replied. "You enjoy. And…and tell me all about it, okay?"

He'd hung up swearing that if she actually did, he was going to drive a straw right into his brain.

+++

Adrie met him at the diner around the block from Pete's. She was smiling; waved him over and Jerry went, feeling like a guy about to stand in front of a firing squad, only no last cigarette, no blindfold. Adrie should front him a last meal at least.

"Jerry." She stopped, carefully spooned sugar into her coffee. She gazed thoughtfully at Jerry as she popped open a creamer and added it too. "Jerry, I met Dean last night—right here actually."

"You went to a diner on a first date?" Jerry said. "Wow, Dean's a little more socially retarded than I'd thought."

She laughed. "Date? Hon, I don’t think Dean knew we were on a date. He pretty much spent the whole time talking about you," she smiled ruefully. "He doesn't know you're gay?"

Jerry bit his lip and shook his head no, the swirls of cream in his coffee suddenly very, very interesting.

"So, that totally explains why he spent all the evening talking you up to me. And just plain talking about you."

"Really?" Jerry couldn’t help a quick smile before feeling bad for Adrie.  
"Hey, I'm. I don't know what to say. That sucks. I'm sorry."

"Sweetie—it's awesome. He's got to have some kind of interest, whether he gets that's what he's feeling or not, right? Right?" She dipped her head, trying to meet Jerry's downcast eyes. "Give it another chance, Jerry."

Jerry sighed. "I've got to tell him, I guess."

She nodded, and they spent the last few minutes of their dinner date in silence, sipping coffee and staring out at the street….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000qr4tr/g350)  



	2. Chapter 2

**PART TWO**   
Jerry stood outside the green door of Dean's new apartment and took a deep breath, exhaled as he counted, _one, two, three…_. No need to be nervous. Wasn't like it was the first time he'd been in Dean's place, after all. Dean was a fairly reasonable person and he didn't run around armed, so…Jerry knocked firmly and decisively, and then cringed back from the door and gave serious thought to sprinting off in the opposite direction. 

True to his luck, a second after he knocked, Dean opened the door with a huge smile. "Hey." He stepped back and Jerry walked in, accidently brushing against Dean and getting a surge of warmth, a hit of Old Spice and plain soap and dried grass…Dean patted him on the shoulder and shut the door. He led Jerry into the kitchen and made him sit on one side of the breakfast bar counter while he sat at the other. A stack of purloined napkins from Burger King and some paper plates sat at one side of the biggest pizza box Jerry had ever seen and a six-pack of beer. 

"Dig in, Sass, I know you growing boys need your calcium an' protein and shit. So, what's up?" Dean asked, all smiles. "Did, ah, did Adrie talk to you about, y'know, stuff?"

"Ah-yep. She talked about stuff, all right." He watched Dean take a slice before he did. Watched Dean take a bite, and watched a long, thin string of milky cheese spin out to dangle from the point of the slice to Dean's lower lip, just kind of hang there for a long few seconds that left Jerry breathless. Dean's tongue swept over the plump curve, licking up the string and his bright white teeth separated it neatly from the slice, before Jerry managed to draw another breath. He ignored Dean's "Are you okay?" because no, he was not, in fact, okay. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen and...he was a little hard. Dean shot him a slightly puzzled look before winking and Jerry gulped the bite he'd taken and wheezed a bit…"'m'okay," he waved Dean back down when he jumped up, probably to administer the Heimlich or something. Jerry caught his breath, "'M'good, really," he gasped.

"So, Adrie," Dean prompted and Jerry sighed. 

"Okay Dean, look…I guess I need to tell you, since we're friends and all, and I want you to know that's how I think of you, y'know, as one of my best friends, okay?" Dean nodded, completely mystified, which translated in Jerry's screwed up brain to 'painfully fucking sexy'…"I'm gay." There. That was done, it was out there now.   
Kind of…sitting there. Baldly. Waiting. 

Dean gasped in a breath and Time started racking up the seconds again. "What? Gay?" was the first thing out of Dean's mouth and then his jaw dropped, his eyes went saucer wide, and then—he laughed, loud and long. "The hell you are!"

Jerry'd figured it might go something like this. In all the scenarios Jerry imagined, he knew none of them were going to end with Dean shouting 'thank god', and dropping to his knees to swallow Jerry's dick. "Yeah, dude. I really am. I hope that we—"

"But you can't be gay—you're not—you’ve never been gay! It's some kind of stupid mistake. Look at you! You're not gay—Jerry. You’re _not."_ Dean stood and crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. Jerry felt like his insides were full of little jagged broken pieces of his heart. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to swallow. He stood too, and got his coat. 

"I'm sorry. I really am, because I'd hoped that we could be friends no matter what. But gay is what I am and if you can't accept that…well, I'm sorry."

Dean shouted, "You're not gay!"

Jerry walked out, and Dean didn’t stop him.

+++

The next morning at work, Adrie corned him in the stock room, took one glance and sighed. "Fuck. It did not go good, did it?"

"Oh, it did not go good in a massively stupid way." He cast a quick look at Adrie before yanking a rag and cleaning spray off a shelf. "Let's just say I don't think we're friends anymore." It hurt like crazy—it didn't feel like his crush had been crushed. It felt like a real, deep loss, like he'd known Dean for years and he'd suddenly decided to walk out of his life and it felt like an amputation.

She trailed Jerry back out to the floor, mumbling to herself as Jerry wiped down tables. They got set up for the morning rush, coffee brewing, pastries in the trays and aprons on and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla made him feel halfway on the road to relaxed—until of course Adrie tanked that.

"I can't believe that guy is such a jerk. He didn't seem like _that_ big an asshole—"

"Adrie. It's not his fault he's not gay. And it wasn't like he spit on me—he just. Couldn't deal with it." Jerry shrugged. 

 

"Yeah, well…just let him show his smarmy face in here. Someone's gonna get a little something extra in their coffee."

"Ew," Jerry laughed, a weak, wobbly kind of laugh, but he did feel a tiny bit better, smiling a bit as he made Adrie promise to do no such thing. "Besides," he said, "it's not like he's ever showing his face in here agai—"

"Well, well…speak of the devil," Adrie muttered.

"Hey, Jer. Adrie. Can I have a large regular but have Jerry get it for me?"

They both snorted and Dean smiled a little at Jerry, hopeful. He also looked mildly perplexed, but not pissed off like he had the night before. Jerry decided maybe he could be persuaded to let Dean apologize. 

He brought Dean his coffee and turned away but Dean grabbed his wrist—and then dropped it like a coal, and then, snatched it back up. "So, my friend tells me that I'm being an enormous asshole and my expectations of the world doesn't mean a thing to the world…well, it made sense last night. He's…rare. But yeah, it just took me by surprise and…Jerry, are you sure? I mean, you just don't seem gay. You know?"

_Seem gay?_ Jerry dug his thumb into the bridge of his nose and counted slowly until he could trust himself not to punch Dean in his pretty face. "Dean. Stop apologizing for god's sake before I have to strangle you. I would like to be friends with you and if you don't shut up, I'm not going to be able to do that." Dean snapped his mouth shut so pointedly that Jerry fought a smile. He wasn't that easy. 

"So," Jerry started, and then yanked out one of the chairs pushed under Dean's table and dropped down onto it. "So, let me start from the beginning—again. Here's the thing about me. I don’t remember much beyond whatever I remembered when I woke up in rehab. Like, _literally_ in mid-stride." He nodded at Dean's shocked inhale. "Yeah. I remembered odd little useless things like, I liked Lucky Charms and hated licorice and had a dog once—" Jerry wondered why Dean just got more and more agitated as he went on—" and that I was gay. And proof came in a girl, also there in rehab, who made a move on me. Well, not so much a move as a crazily determined and violent groping which would have sent me over the edge but she was about like, two foot tall and shaped like a twig…um." 

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him and shoved his coffee cup over to Jerry. Jerry dipped his head and blushed, gulped at Dean's coffee and went on, a little slower and calmer. "So, this freaked me out because I didn't want to get tossed out of the place—who were they gonna believe, the little girl or the six foot something giant—but more than that, she didn't do a damn thing for me. Like, _nothing._ The epitome of nothing. But there was a guy on staff there, Riley, and all that stuff I should have theoretically felt for the girl flared right up whenever he passed me. So I really had no question I was gay, y'know?"

Dean hmm'ed and nodded and said, "Way to go on a long-winded explanation there, Sa—Sasquatch. Still…maybe there's some kind of glitch, you know, like false memories…"

"Dean," Jerry snapped, "I doubt very much you can have false memories of your sexual orientation." and refrained from adding 'asshole', but it was close.

"Maybe?" Dean squinted at him in a hopeful way.

"No," Jerry said firmly. "No." 

"I just don’t get it…you never. Maybe you experimented in college…?" Dean said, and it kind of sounded to Jerry like Dean equated college with a pit of ravenous voles.

"Well, can't say, Dean, what with the _not remembering?"_ And now, like it strangely never really had before, Jerry's lack of memory squirmed in his gut like a live thing, got under his skin and scratched and gnawed. Suddenly, violently, he hated this state of being, hated not knowing who he really was or where he came from. Hated being alone. 

For all Dean seemed to have a heart and a brain made of brick, he caught on to Jerry's moment of despair and shifted the hand still caging Jerry's wrist to take Jerry's hand in his. "Hey, Jerry, hey. You're not alone, okay? I'm right here. I'm gonna be here. Not going anywhere." The look in his eyes was so concerned, so fond, it hurt. 

"Fucking hell, Dean, you're not helping anything." Dean looked hurt and made a move like he was going to drop Jerry's hand or leave but Jerry held on. "I didn't mean it like that, man. Look…you're like; you feel like, I don’t know, a rock in the stream of my life. Don’t laugh. It's just everything's been rushing past me and I've just been bobbing in the water and then suddenly there's you and it's like, I can take a breath and not paddle so freakin' hard because there you are, helping me keep my head above water." And fucking Dean. What the hell was it about Dean that reduced Jerry to brainless babbling?

He expected Dean to cut out or laugh but Dean beamed, flat-out grinned like Jerry'd just told him he'd won a million dollars. "Yeah?"

Jerry nodded, "Yeah."

"Well, good. Now where's my refill, bitch?"

"Oh my god, I just spilled my heart out to you and that's what I get? You are such a—a—jerk!" Jerry expected Dean to laugh, or maybe pitch a balled up napkin at his head, but what he got instead was definitely not the reaction he'd been expecting.

Dean rocked back in his seat, gulped once or twice like Jerry had just done the most unexpected thing in the world, and then…this slow, soft and entirely endearing smile curved his lips and…Jerry jumped up and ran back to the counter. Fuck. He was so totally screwed. Every time he glanced over at Dean, Dean still had that same soft, gooey smile on his face. The light pink tint on his cheeks just made his damn freckles stand out that much more…bastard. Sitting at his table being so fucking hot and clueless. 

Adrie patted him on the back. "You're fucked, son."

"I wish," Jerry grumbled and his heartless co-worker laughed in his face.

+++

There was nothing unusual in the expansive sweep of green grass. It was studded here and there with islands of shrubs, and struggling little patches of flowers. Normal. There was nothing weird about the gravel pathways leading down to the silvery swath of river, perfectly normal and almost boring. Just…sometimes Jerry was struck with the oddest feeling of being an interloper at the edge of the campfire; like he was encroaching on a place he didn't belong…he shook his head. He figured it had something to do with those days he thankfully couldn't remember fully. He didn't especially want the memories of being an addict back. He sure didn't want to recall what he'd done; the echoes of barely remembered dreams convinced him that it really had not been good things. He just wanted…some idea of who he'd been. And if he'd ever been a good person before….

Jerry strolled down the path towards the section of the park where he was meant to meet Gabe. He settled on one of the benches close to the shelter of overgrown shrubbery, and watched life—kids enjoying the illusion of freedom, running and screaming and doing loud kid things, people walking spoiled, ridiculously well-fed dogs that sniffed and peed all over everything that didn't move, lovers trying to surreptitiously grope each other and some not so surreptitiously at all…he could feel his cheeks heat, and sighed. Nothing said Loserville more than watching other people make out. 

He redirected his attention to the glitter of sunlight bouncing off the river and tried to empty his mind with little success. Alongside his usual feeling of not belonging, there was the slight, very slight nagging feeling he hadn't finished something, or that there was something he should be doing now, and for some reason staring at the river kicked that feeling up a notch or two, making it hard to ignore….

Gabe came trotting up to him and plopped down, his elbow banging into Jerry's and with a huge grin, handed him a pretzel. "Way to look friendly, dude. Here. I could feel your need for a pretzel from a mile away." He glanced around and inhaled. "Smells like fall's creeping up on us, man. Can't believe it. Swear, this was the fastest summer in creation."

"You sound like an old fart," Jerry said, ripping into the pretzel. He hummed in pleasure. Gabe always knew what he needed. 

They sat for while in a comfortable silence broken only by Gabe slurping on his ice-coffee. Jerry had kind of slid into a comfortable waking-doze, until the point of Gabe's elbow brought him fully awake. "Hey, isn't that your boy over there?"

"He's not my boy," Jerry snapped automatically, while wishing it was so. He squinted against the afternoon light and yeah, it was Dean, talking earnestly to some guy dressed like John Constantine—only no way as cool. It wasn't a hot afternoon, but by no means was it trench-coat weather yet. Dean looked agitated and John Constantine reached out and clasped Dean by the back of the neck and pulled him close. Too close. Jerry felt the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Constantine was standing too close and Dean wasn't moving back and…and…maybe what Dean had meant by his little freakout that he just didn't want Jerry, not that he was straight. Which made horrible sense. Just looking at those two Jerry wondered how he could ever have thought that Dean was straight, awful fashion sense aside.

"Dude," Gabe murmured, voice full of way too much sympathy and Jerry could only nod.

"Yeah."

"Dude, Al will fucking kick his ass."

"Oh my god, don't you dare tell Al!"

When Jerry looked over to where John Constantine and Dean had been, no one was there.

+++

He didn't see Dean for a couple of weeks, and his moping was epic—at least Ginny claimed it was, and Adrie backed her up—so eventually, he took a deep breath, put Dean on a metaphorical shelf and got on with his life.

In the middle of his getting on with things, Ginny cornered him in the stockroom, reminding Jerry once again that he should never step in there on his own, and managed to get him to agree to pizza and movies at her place. Adrie was included so he figured it would be less awkward, what with Ginny's massive crush on him and all. Adrie would provide a safety wall against Ginny's less than subtle flirtation and stubborn belief that he was gay, okay, but not when it came to her. He had no idea how she decided that and why. It was a strange lapse of logic on her part, and from everything he'd observed about her, she was a very smart girl as well as sexy and he could notice that without having the slightest desire to bone her. Jerry thought the whole thing vacillated between being oddly amusing and pretty fucking irritating.

+++

He came down to the living room, wondering if he should tuck his shirt in or leave it untucked— tucked it in, and finally decided not to, yanking it loose. He looked up to catch Al staring at him. Al frowned, his gaze skittering all over Jerry. He huffed and just when Jerry was about to ask him what the hell was wrong he came out with, "This is bad news, dude. I'm just sayin', she's kind of pushy. Not sayin' she's not nice, just—take a hoodie, temp's supposed to drop tonight."

Jerry nodded, completely unfazed by the non sequitur and headed off to grab a hoodie from the hooks in the entry way. 

No sense in arguing with the man. Al had settled nicely into his self-appointed role as big brother. An annoying, in-his-business, big brother. Jerry was sure if he'd ever had a big brother, he must have been something like Al, because he and Jerry had both slotted into their roles like they'd been born to it. The bitch of it was that Al was his age and still acted like Jerry was barely able to put his own shoes on and sometimes seemed perilously close to tying his laces for him. Still, to quote Gabe, it came from a place of caring—proof of that was Dean.

Or Al and Dean.

Those two had a tolerate-hate relationship that bordered on worrisome. Dean seemed reluctant to admit that he and Al had anything in common, and Al was still halfway convinced that Dean was a danger to Jerry. Probably more than halfway lately what with unintentionally breaking his heart. Jerry had made him promise he'd be nice to Dean anyway. Sure, it was an effort in progress, but it warmed Jerry's heart that Al even tried. 

On his way out of the house, he grabbed Al and planted an especially juicy kiss on his forehead—he could hear Al bitching about it halfway down the block.

+++

He pushed the buzzer to Ginny's apartment building and she buzzed him in. He trotted up the stairs, and she hung out over the stairway's railing, waving at him, big grin on her face. "Hey, Goliath! Up here," she called. She practically had to leap up in the air to loop an arm around his neck and peck him on the cheek before she let him into her place.

"Adrie's here already, so go grab a beer and a slice and park it," she said as she closed the door. Jerry grinned and slid by her, tossing the hoodie over a chair. 

Adrie looked up with a slightly not-sober grin. "Jer! Sit down! We're watching Sleepless In Seattle!"

"Oh god," he moaned. "Nobody with a dick watches that movie."

"Misogynist!" Ginny yelled at him and they both threw their napkins at him. 

They made the movie interesting by taking a shot every time the lead actress tried to express an emotion. Ginny teased him into it, and Jerry figured that he was good—he could handle it and he knew enough not to lose control. A couple of drinks weren't going to tank him….

By the time Adrie left, Jerry was so drunk he couldn't see straight. Ginny laughed her ass off at him; left him sort of splayed out half on the couch and rapidly headed to the floor. When she came back, she'd changed into an extra-long, extra-large t-shirt, and tossed him some sheets and a blanket. 

"You're not going anywhere, pissed as you are, you'd get a ticket for _walking._ Besides, my couch is comfy. Now, tell me all about it," she said, and sat next to him, tucking her feet up. Jerry swallowed, ignored the sting in his eyes because it was ridiculous, and began telling her about Dean. How Dean had broken his heart; sure, he'd done it not really meaning to and probably without knowing, but it hurt anyway and Ginny said that Dean had a point about him not really _really_ knowing about his sexuality and maybe he should try it on and Jerry decided to show her how not into girls he was, and that's how he ended up fucking his co-worker on her hideous plaid couch.

It was odd that it wasn't odd, and not just because one tight passage is the same as another. Her curves, the soft way they filled his hands, the tight grip of her legs around his hips…it was like he knew it. They kissed for a bit. Sloppy and off-centered through most of it, like uncoordinated, teenage, first-time kisses, he thought, but not nearly as arousing. For having little hands, she had a sure, aggressive grip and she got him hard and rolled a condom down on his dick in such a business-like way that he never had a chance to freak.

Turned out she had nothing on under that t-shirt. He ended up with his shirt rucked up and pants pulled down his thighs. His knees and elbows were pressed against fabric that had to have been woven from steel wool and maybe barbed wire, but he struggled manfully to ignore being flayed and concentrated on the way her boobs bounced sort of hypnotically, like jello molds on a plate. He figured best he kept that observation to himself…. 

She was wet, dripping, and he slid into her like they were made for each other. They both groaned at the sensation, both gasped when his hips snapped instinctively. It was easier in a way, no lube needed, no prep—he asked and she laughed—"You're big, but you're not that big—" to which his response was helpless giggling and almost falling off the couch. He slipped out, frequently, and she laughed and kicked him and snorted a lot. He brought her off with his fingers and some guidance, then she tightened down on him and asked if he was still thinking about Dean. Which made him come and then feel guilty and maudlin and she kicked him again and threw the blankets on his head with a command to sleep it off.

When he came to the next morning, he knew that he was the kind of gay that was seriously gay, and even though it had been kind of fun, he felt a deep ache that it was with her and not Dean that he'd had the first sex that he could ever remember having. 

Ginny was at her little kitchen table when he came out of the bathroom, his hair wet from pouring water over his head in her bathroom sink, gums tingling from brushing his teeth only halfway effectively with his finger. He grimaced at the not really clean feel of his mouth. 

"Hey, there's coffee and toast, if you want," she said.

He grabbed the sheets off the couch to fold and ignored her when she said, "Leave them, I'm just going to wash them." 

"Is that all there is, is toast?" he asked, after he dropped the neatly folded linens on a kitchen chair.

She stared at him, all narrowed eyes and plush mouth gone into a tight flat line. "Yes. I don't do breakfast," she said.

"God, really? It is just that you're lazy or do you really not eat the most important meal of the day?"

"Fuck you, fucking me gets you no privileges."

"You're as bad as my…" he stopped, confused…he had no idea where he was going with that. "As crabby as Morning Al," he finished and it seemed halfway right. "Anyway, I was going to offer to spring for breakfast, but if you're worried about your figure or something—"

"Hell yeah, eggs, bacon, waffles, hash-browns—let's go!"

"You're totally hollow inside, aren't you?" he asked and she gave him a really odd look before flipping him off. 

After, when they left the diner and he gave her a short, quick, and fairly impersonal hug, considering the circumstances in which they came to share breakfast, she asked him, "So, do you think—?" 

He shook his head emphatically. "Uhm, no. No. I—I." He shrugged, "It was, you know. It was kind of fun. But not me."

She looked sad for a second, the expression flashed so fast into a smirk he wasn't sure he'd really seen it. "Yeah, well, it was fun for me. Too bad. Maybe Dean'll come around some day, but here's the thing. You fucked me but it didn't make you straight. Whataya think's gonna happen if you actually by some miracle get Dean in bed one day?"

After casually and all unaware (or maybe not) ripping his heart out and thanking him for breakfast, she left him standing there, hollowed out, on the sidewalk, his take-out cup of coffee going stone-cold in his hand.

[ ](http://askellington.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/458/13901)

Al was coming in from the grocery store at the same time Jerry stumbled up onto the porch. Jerry felt queasy, no doubt from a too heavy breakfast, grateful for not being very much hungover, and guilty as hell for, for drinking, for fucking Ginny. Like anyone cared.

Al looked him over with a mildly curious expression until they met eyes. His face fell. "Oh, you didn't. Could you get stupider? No, no—I'm not gonna jump all over you. I should." Jerry bit his lip. Okay, so someone cared. Al sighed and went on. "I'm gonna have to move to a different coffee place now, aren't I? Damn." Al shook his head and his body language read _you made a huge mistake'._

Jerry wanted to say I got it, I know but he said, "No, it's really okay. She finally gets it—we're just gonna move right past—that."

"Yeah, the look on your mug tells me she got it, all right." He shook his head. "You’re stupid, son."

"God, I know. I know," Jerry moaned and trudged up the stairs to his floor, head pounding with the wages of sin.

+++

And of course, out of nowhere, Dean reappeared. He pushed his way into Pete's the next morning, nostrils flaring and his cheeks an interesting red. "Gimme a coffee—please," he added, looking straight at Adrie.

"Dean." Jerry snapped.

"What?" Dean said, eyes wide with fake innocence and fuck—the morning sun coming through the windows painted the stupid spikes of his stupid hair with gold, and turned his eyes a stupid shade of moss green that lightened to emerald when the light hit them a certain way, his lips parted, no doubt to spill some idiocy, but a barbed point of painful lust hit Jerry right in the groin and he had to concentrate on not concentrating on that fucking mouth so he missed whatever gem Dean spit.

"Hunh?" Jerry said, squeezing his eyes shut tight to clear the pornographic image of Dean on his knees, trapped between a wall and Jerry's hips, drooling around Jerry's dick.

"I said, what the hell—how can you sleep with that—that—"

"How did you—" Jerry rocked a bit, grabbed onto the counter edge as a hot wave of rage smashed into him, rage that didn't even feel like his and made him want to hit Dean right in his smug, holier-than-thou face. "You fucking told me to," he snarled.

"How are you gonna blame this on me again?" Dean practically howled, indignation splashed all over his face, and hurt—he was hurt, and Jerry just. Didn't. Get. It. Dean had no right, none at all….

"You said I shouldn't be so sure I was gay so, I just—" he shrugged. "You know."

"But not her!" Dean shouted, and another voice parroted him, Adrie, whose eyebrows were nearly sitting on the back of her head. "Right?" Dean said and Adrie turned on Jerry, nearly pulled him over the counter by his apron. 

"You're an asshole, Bennett! You can bet she manipulated the whole thing. She's gonna play on your guilt and before you know it, you'll do it again and again until you're wrapped up in something you wouldn't want for a million bucks because you’re a decent guy and an idiot."

"What she said," Dean snapped. "That bitch is poison."

"Stop!" Jerry shouted, and slammed a fist on the counter, setting off the straw containers like dominos. "Stop," he shouted again as Adrie tried to catch the straws and customers froze in their tracks, eyes wide and obviously wondering if this was a hostage type situation. "Why are you blaming her? It's not her fault—she didn't do anything wrong. She was trying to help and you guys, you, you shut up about her," he pointed at Dean. "You don't even know her!"

"Neither do you," Dean yelled and Jerry almost punched the counter again but Adrie stopped him. 

"Yes, _I_ do. _You_ don't. And so what anyway?" Jerry managed to keep from shouting again, though his hoarse whisper was barely softer than a shout. "Why the fuck do you care who I fuck?"

"I don—I just—fuck, forget it, okay? Gimme my fucking coffee."

Jerry whipped around, pulled a cup, jammed a lid on and slammed it down on the counter. "On the house. Now get out."

"You wish," Dean snapped and headed to his table, his occupied table. When Jerry looked over again, Dean was sitting there at his usual table, sneaking looks at him. Scowled when he realized Jerry'd caught him, and kept frowning every time Jerry did, until finally, Jerry started smiling. Just a bit. Which slowly became smirking, and finally became outright laughing every time he caught Dean looking. At that point, it was clear Dean was doing it just to make him laugh. 

Break came up and Dean was still there, nursing his third cup of coffee and pushing the crumbs of a berry pie around on the plate. Jerry took his apron off, reached for the ceiling and then spread his arms, rolled his head and sighed. He felt every bone in his spine pop—nothing like standing on tile for a couple of hours to compress your spine. He felt a little chill around his waistline and pulled his t-shirt down to cover the strip of skin exposed and frowned, he really needed to get bigger t-shirts. He'd head over to the Dollar Mart this weekend and pick up a pack of black tees…he looked up and caught Dean looking and this time, it didn’t make him laugh. There was something in Dean's expression that made the back of Jerry's neck feel hot, made him feel like hot fingers were crawling up under his t-shirt. Dean stared and stared, an odd mix of expressions skittering over his face—guilt, maybe. Interest definitely—so what the hell? Was that what the whole Ginny thing had been about? 

Dean caught Jerry's eyes and blushed a deep, embarrassed red. 

Jerry bit the inside of his cheek, and looked away. When he looked back Dean was gone. "Fuck," he muttered, and cursed himself for reacting to probably nothing. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he slipped it out.

_Cold be Im an idiot. Pizza on me?_

Jerry grinned, cautious little sprigs of hope bloomed as he read. Well, okay. Jealousy was possibly an ice breaker. He thanked Ginny in his mind. "Fistpump," he whispered because he wasn't lame enough to actually fistpump.

Adrie squeezed by, a tray of plates and glasses balanced against her hip. "Saying it doesn't make it less loserish than doing it."

"You wish you were as cool as me."

"Oh, yeah. You're like, the king of Coolville. The sultan of smooth."

"Yeah, well, you're—you're—"

"You go on and finish that," Adrie said, with a look of waif-like innocence which Jerry wasn't fool enough to fall for; he liked his balls where they were, thank you. He whipped his apron back on and fled out to the tables. 

"Coward," she called after him and he snorted. 

He thought about Dean while he wiped the tables down. He had to figure out how to introduce Dean to the idea that maybe he wasn't as straight as he thought he was. 

He was enjoying an interesting, athletic scenario involving Dean's new-found bisexuality when something across the street caught his eye. Jerry did a slight double take. For a second, he'd thought John Constantine Guy was lurking on the next sidewalk over. Jerry squinted, sure he'd seen—something, but there was no one there, just some odd shadows from a market's awning.

+++

"Jer-ry." Kat had this disturbing way of breaking Jerry's name into two parts.

Like, all the time. 

Kat was sweet, loving, a bit high-strung and a little bit of a babbler—she had a baby face and the most expressive eyes and despite the fact that he was drawn to her, she made him nervous, too. She had an air of always being on the edge of flying apart and yet—not. Right now, she was seriously unloading a few paper bags and making Gabe run out to the car and get the cooler she'd shoved in the back.

"Jer-ry, swear this cooler is the best, it’s a big old steel thing belongs to my dad—it'd keep a couple of corpses icy all the way to the shore, promise. If you were taking corpses to the shore. Which you're not because than that would make this Weekend At Bernie's and only the first one was funny am I right—?"

"Kat! Jezuz." Gabe elbowed her." You're boring Jer—or scaring the hell out of him. "

Jerry just smiled. 

Kat flapped her hands, making it perfectly plain what she thought of Gabe's ridiculous comments. "Well, all right, so here, this is chicken salad only I didn’t use mayo god forbid I poison you guys it's got Italian salad dressing instead, you'll like it, and there's grapes in it because that’s healthy and kind of cool, right, so here's some rolls and stuff, beers but you can't drink, right, so I tossed a few sodas in—or can you drink?" She peered at him and Jerry shrugged.

"One or two. I'm not much of a drinker now. Ever, I don't think."

"Al, don’t drink you’re driving. Is that Dean boy coming, I like him he's so hot. Oh wait, is he your boyfriend? Sorry if he is Jer, and also wow, lucky you—"

"No." Jerry shook his head. "Dean's just a friend."

"You know," Kat drawled, eyes squinted in thought, "my sister has a friend who's gay, and he's single. You know we should—"

"We should not," Jerry said firmly," I'm okay, not looking and I'm perfectly happy with the way things are right now."

"I'll just get his number, no pressure, maybe coffee one Saturday, he's supposed to be cute."

Al dumped ice in the old Coleman cooler and said, "They're never cute. They're never nice. Leave Jerry alone. He knows what he wants."

"Oh my god, I'm just trying to help. He's wasting his time following Dean around like a sad little puppy and…and I didn’t mean that how it sounded. Oh god…." She cupped her own cheeks and turned bright red, and it was hard to be pissed off at her because she was kind of adorable. So Jerry just laughed, a little weak and breathless, but counted it as a win that he hadn't run up the stairs and locked himself in his room.   
"Nah, it's okay. Not like I don’t know. It's. It is what it is." He smiled and Kat threw her tiny self against him, hugged him until he wheezed—she was a lot stronger than she looked and Gabe grinned as he peeled her off apologetically.

+++

Dean came up the walk not long after they got the cooler packed and in the back of Al's SUV.

He bitched and complained about sitting in the back, until Al whirled around and said, "Rule one, passengers shut their cakeholes. Two, the guy with the longest legs gets to sit up front so he's not a crippled guy we have to drag his ass on the beach when we get there, okay? Now, if you don’t like it I can let you out here."

"God, all right, you horrible nag."

"Shut up, I'm not a nag. Right, Jerry?"

"In about a minute, I'm grabbing the wheel and throwing everyone out." Jerry said. Everybody shut up, even Dean. Who then amused himself by poking Jerry in the neck every ten minutes for the rest of the way down. Jerry spent the few hours torn between wanting to punch Dean in the head, and fucking him stupid. Something about that relentless poke-poke-poke made him feel loved. "Asshole," he muttered and Dean smirked.

+++

The hiked along the edge of the beach until they came on a spot that wasn't wall-to-wall bodies, dumped their blankets and sand chairs. Gabe shoved Al towards the boardwalk—off to get something completely unhealthy to scarf.

Dean eased down onto the blanket next to Jerry. "God, what, d'ja beat up a horse and steal its blanket, dude? This thing is rank. Feels like a Brillo pad." He glared at Jerry like he'd purposely picked a crummy blanket just to annoy him 

"Well fuck me, princes, if I'd known you were so delicate…"

Dean flipped him off and stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles, and Jerry realized that Dean had boots on, a disreputable pair of engineer's boots that looked like they'd never seen better days. And jeans.

"Dude, aren't you going to change—into a swimsuit?" Jerry asked.

"Are you crazy? I don't have a suit—" Dean made a face like Jerry'd suggested that he dance naked down the beach. 

Jerry snorted, heaved himself off the blanket and upright. He jammed both hands into his stiff back, stretched as far back as he could, doing the Old Guy stretch, working calf muscles and back muscles—he sighed contentedly and stripped off his t-shirt and dropped it on the blanket. He turned to smile at Dean. 

Dean was staring at him, mouth open, eyes wide. The pink tip of his tongue slid out over the bow of his plush lower lip and Jerry blinked. Hard, so as to rid his eyes of the sight and shake loose the romance novel that was trying to be born in his head. 

Didn't mean he couldn't stare back—he watched the light blush rush across Dean's cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a path that Jerry knew somehow the sun would burn to a deep, lobster-red. A hot bolt of undiluted lust burned its way through his gut and settled in his chest, totally dissipating the tickle of guilt about finding Dean sunburnt sexy…imagined licking hot, tight skin….

Jerry shook his head, he'd deal with his rather oddball kinks later. Right now, Dean was looking at him—hell, _gawking—_ and obviously liked what he saw. Jerry subtly flexed his biceps and checked Dean out. Dean was still a little flushed, but he snorted and rolled his eyes. Okay. So, not as subtle as he'd thought. He grinned, and Dean rolled his eyes again, but was grinning too. 

Jerry spread out on the blanket and closed his eyes. He sifted through his few clear memories, wondered if he'd ever been at the beach before…felt like yes, but there was an undercurrent of 'alone' with the impressions…that warm presence he sometimes imagined wasn't there. At his side, Dean shifted awkwardly. A few minutes later, Dean shifted again. Pulled the hem of his t-shirt out and flapped it. 

Jerry sat up squinted against the bright light. Dean was red, sweat rolling down his face, gathering in the creases of his neck and shoulder. "Oh for god's sake, you little girl. Take your shit off." 

Dean blushed a ferocious red. Jerry matched him blush for blush and muttered, "I mean your shirt."

"I knew that!" Dean whipped his shirt off and threw it down. 

Jerry swallowed, and directed his entire attention out to sea and hoped that the sharp sudden jolt of _I want that_ didn’t show as blatantly as it felt. Considered sprinting out and throwing himself into the ocean, into the cold, cold, hard-on killing water….

Dean stood up. "All right damn it. I need shorts. Fuck."

"Haven't you ever been at the shore before? Didn't you know it was going to be hot as hell?"

"S'not that hot," Dean said and the bitterness behind his words surprised Jerry. Dean went on, still looking out to the grey-green waves, "Yeah, I've been to the beach before but it was a really long time ago, me and—and—my brother. We, ah, we were kids, little kids. It was. Nice. You know? But we didn't get to stay long and the only time after that was for. Jobs. Stuff like that…never for fun again. Yeah. Gotta get me some shorts." He rolled his shoulders and Jerry bit his lip at the smooth play of muscle across Dean's wide back. The way it tapered down to a perfect handhold. Jerry's face went hot with the thought. 

Al and Gabe came trudging down the beach towards them, sodas clutched in their hands and al gaped at Dean. "Are you stupid? No, you don’t even need to say. I thought you’d brought shorts. I should have known better. Go, there's a million suit places on the boardwalk and you don’t have to buy cute, just cheap. Like you."

"Fuck you, Al. You're nowhere near as funny as you think you are."

Al just smiled. 

An hour later and lots and lots of complaining, when Jerry dragged Dean back to their spot, Dean was togged out in the ugliest, plainest black shorts it was possible to find, slogging along in a pair of flip-flops and it was so obvious to anyone anywhere that the footwear was not only foreign to Dean, it was personally offensive in a major way. 

His feet were so white that Jerry couldn't help wincing every time he glanced at them. "Dude, have you ever exposed your feet to the air?"

"Shut up, you wish you had feet this nice."

"Did you say feet this white?" Al asked, goggling at Dean's feet, "because seriously, they look like the feet of a dead man."

Dean stomped off towards the water, giving Jerry a great view of the way his shorts hung low on his hips. He wasn't cut and ripped like some guys out there, but he had little dimples right above his ass, dimples that looked like Jerry's thumbs would fit there perfectly. The dip at the end of his spine…Jerry imagined pressing his cheek there, kissing there…he sighed. Jerry had slowly become aware that the lust he felt for Dean was slightly more than that. He was stupid for Dean but it had turned into this…this feeling that he didn't want to go any days without Dean. He wanted to see him every day, to talk to him every day, and god, how he wished he could touch him—

Jerry raced down the beach past Dean, and threw himself into the water; let the waves carry him out from the shore. He swam, sharp and business-like through the waves, just feeling the pull of muscle, the slight burn as he worked, hard, to pull away from the shore and Dean, Dean who was driving him insane, who was burning him up inside with the need to touch. Warmer tracks ran down his cheeks, water and frustrated tears. How was he supposed to live with this? How could he live without it?

+++

Lunch came and went and the combination of exercise and food and sun made Jerry slump slowly to the blanket, slowly, softly…he heard himself snore, and cringed inside, but warm fingers worked through his hair, carefully and gently sweeping it back from his forehead. He heard a soft voice. _Shhh, sleep, I love seeing you sleep like this._ The slow, gentle sweep of Dean's hand relaxed him, he felt safer than he'd ever felt before. It was…familiar but not. He sank deeper and deeper, the weight of warm contentment easing him back under, deeper into sleep. He wasn't sure, was probably a dream but he heard Dean whisper, "Sleep, little brother."

The whispered words worked their way into his weird, weird dream of driving down a dark road, in a huge old fashioned car, his hands on the wheel and the wheel disappearing but Dean sitting next to him saying, "You sleep and I'll drive," and Jerry knew it was true, that he was safe and Dean would drive and he smiled in his sleep.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000qs0aq/g350)


	3. Chapter 3

**PART THREE**  
When Jerry woke up, his head was pillowed on a pile of his and Dean's t-shirts and he wasn't sure if he'd dreamt Dean's kindness or not. Dean was standing at the edge of the water when Jerry woke, talking to Al. They both looked comfortable, so Jerry decided that it must have been a nice dream. 

Jerry slept all the way home, and when they pulled into the driveway, Dean said good-bye but looked like he didn't really want to go, so Jerry invited himself in to Dean's. Of course.

Dean unlocked his apartment door and dropped the bag with his stuff in the hallway. "Check what's on TV and I'll take a look at what we have to eat."

Jerry nodded, grabbed the remote and flipped through channels. He debated asking Dean if he could take a shower, rinse out his stuff. He still had a pair of dry, clean shorts in his bag. The banging about in the kitchen began to take on a purposeful sound. "Whatcha doin'?"

"You like mac-n-cheese? Was gonna make some. My brother—" he stumbled to a stop. "I used to make it a lot, because it was cheap and he liked it. Do you like it?" 

Dean looked so solemn, eyes wide and filled with sadness, sadness and something a little like love. Something about those eyes invoked an uncontrollable response—Jerry's lower lip pulled in and he stared at Dean and just nodded, nodded and a sharp sting pricked at the corners of his eyes. He missed…he missed _something_ so much it hurt, made him want to throw himself at Dean and made him want to eat mac and cheese and lay in the backseat of a big old car and let it take him some unknown way down unknown roads. He wanted to feel safe like that.

The weird, the weirder thing, was the look Dean gave him because it was full of _I know what you're thinking and I want the same,_ but he just gave Jerry a nod back and turned back to the stove, like mac and cheese was the most important thing in the world. "So, you should, y'know, wash up or something, then you can watch this shit cook while I get cleaned up. Oh, and check that bag, I hooked some beers off Al…"

Jerry found two beers tucked into Dean's boots. He grimaced, then what the hell, he had to laugh; he pulled them out to shove in the fridge. 

He showered, feeling a little weird to be standing in Dean's shower, weird like he was intruding on Dean but Dean hadn't seemed to mind or think there was anything odd about it at all. 

There were a couple of really crappy towels folded on a shelf over the toilet and he took one. It was the thin and worn, way worse than the towels he'd had in rehab. He had the feeling Dean did all his linen shopping at forty-dollar-a-night motels. He wrung as much water off himself as he could and pulled the dry clothes back on. There was a comb on the edge of the sink, he grabbed and ran it through his hair. Tried not to imagine it going through Dean's hair, curving around his ears… god. Girl, such a girl. And entirely Dean's fault.

In the kitchen, Dean was humming something and stirring a can of what looked like chili into the noodles along with the cheese sauce. "Gross, dude."

"Shut up, you fucking love this," Dean said with such total confidence that Jerry burst out laughing. Dean grinned back and hustled into the shower, and Jerry took out plates and glasses, knowing Dean's kitchen just as well as his own. Jerry stopped, smiled down at the table and the two plates, two glasses, two forks set there. It seemed right. He liked it, a lot. He fished a handful of Dean's purloined Burger King napkins from his stash and dumped them in pile between the plates. That was about all he was prepared to do, in the way of setting a table. 

He was giving the pot one last stir, shaking in some garlic powder, just as Dean came out, still damp and smelling like soap and warm skin. Dean spied the garlic and snorted. He managed to squirm past Jerry without touching him and took a plastic pitcher of Kool-Aid from the fridge. Dean hummed as he filled their glasses, and Jerry smiled. Whatever the song was, it felt familiar to him, made him smile. Dean set the glasses down on the table and after a second, took the beer out too and set one by each place. He stared at Jerry for a long minute, his expression unreadable. It was odd and uncomfortable, that long, blank look, and made Jerry want to—hide, or fidget or yell. And then, Dean smiled. He set the pot on the table and dropped a big wooden spoon in it. "Eat up, Sas."

It was so good Jerry couldn't keep himself from moaning with each mouthful. "Geez, Dean, y'r a fuckin' genius," he mumbled around a loaded forkful of mac-n-cheese. 

"You got that right," he said. "You, you eat as much as you want, okay? There's so much of it. I've got so much food here."

Jerry glanced up; Dean seemed almost…something. Sad, melancholy…it was odd. The whole evening was odd; it felt like they were trembling on the edge of a big—he didn't even have a word for what it felt like. Maybe his memory was coming back? He'd been having this bizarre deja-vu feeling all day. Or was it Dean? Was this…Dean falling? Just the thought made Jerry shiver, made him a little hard. He must have made some noise because Dean looked up from his plate and their eyes met. Dean's pupils were blown wide open, his cheeks pinked up. He swallowed, hard, just as Jerry bit his cheek, yelped when blood flooded his mouth, he'd bit that hard. 

"Hey—" Whatever Dean had been thinking was gone, he flipped the switch from…whatever it was to paramedic. He jumped out of his chair and grabbed Jerry's head, "What, what'd you bite down on?"

"Me! I bit my cheek, like an idiot." He'd bit his cheek like a fucking _vampire—_ it hurt like hell and his mouth was disgustingly full of blood.

"Holy shit, dude, you're really bleeding there, damn…" Dean had this kind of horrified look which was weird because Jerry would never have imagined Dean to be such a light weight when it came to bodily fluids. Actually, it didn't seem to be so much nausea as horrified fascination, like staring at a car wreck. Jerry licked at his lip and the inside of his mouth, felt blood coating his teeth, and realized that he was drooling a thin string of blood over his chin. Fuck, he could just imagine what a crazy picture he must make, no wonder Dean was staring at him all ew-faced. Bleeding all out your face sure wasn't conducive to getting in anyone's pants, he thought, and grabbed a handful of napkins to wipe off but Dean was there, wiping it with his own hand, dragging the palm of his hand over Jerry's mouth, swiping down over his chin, "It's okay, it's all right, you're all right," he murmured with an edge of…panic or something, so Jerry grabbed his hand, held it. 

"Dean. I'm okay. I swear." Not letting go, he grabbed the beer and drank, drank until the only taste was the bitter bite of the cheap beer. "Okay—see?"

The disturbing taste of blood was gone. Dean, Dean closed his eyes, and Jerry mumbled, "Fuck it," and pulled him closer. Kissed him. He was beyond caring if Dean kicked the shit out of him, this was his chance and he was taking it. Following his instinct. Listening to his gut. Besides, he was fairly certain he could take Dean in a dirty fight….

"We shouldn't, we shouldn't, we have to—" Dean tried to push Jerry away, his arm tense and at full length, his hand a firm barrier pressed against Jerry's chest, but instinct kept Jerry moving and Dean's arm trembled, bent to the pressure and slowly lowered. His eyes opened and he looked at Jerry.

It was shocking, how much want there was in Dean's eyes. How he trembled, his mouth, his hands, when they slid from Jerry's chest to his neck. Tears swam in his eyes but still, he pulled Jerry forward, moaned/sighed/groaned into the kiss Jerry pressed on him. Dean surrendered to it like they'd been fighting and Dean lost. His lips went from cool and a little dry to hot, pulsing hot and swollen against Jerry's so quickly. Maybe because Jerry couldn't kiss him without scraping his teeth over the thick flesh, nipping Dean until he protested and then smoothing his tongue over the little pinches, murmuring soothing words into his mouth, against his lips and against his jaw. Jerry had no idea if it was like this for him to kiss someone. "I don't remember doing this before," he said, discounting drunken fumbling and fantasies because this was what was real and what he'd been hoping for.

Dean shuddered and pulled Jerry closer and when he spoke, it seemed he was answering a question not asked—"No, we haven't, we've never done this; we never did, but…" His eyes closed so tightly he looked like he was in pain. "I wanted to. Forever. I wanted so much, I was almost happy when you left. Almost." Dean looked terrified, and it made Jerry hesitate—he didn't want Dean thinking he _had_ to go forward, that wasn't what this was about—Dean picked that moment to grind his dick against the painfully hard bulge of Jerry's own dick and the worry faded.

Okay, so he didn't know what Dean was talking about. But this? It was about this, this moment he'd been waiting for since the first time he'd seen Dean's stupid, cocky grin and fuck _anything_ that tried to get between them now. Because this, him and Dean, was all that counted. He shuddered when Dean grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom, not nerves, just relief. Overwhelming relief. 

Jerry expected that they'd go at it like animals—Dean didn't seem the type for slow and sweet but. Slow. And sweet …and Dean was, was amazing. He took control, dragging kisses from Jerry, dragging moans. His hands were smart, and touched Jerry in all the places he liked and Jerry didn't know if Dean made those places or if they'd always been there, waiting….

He took Jerry's clothes off like he was unveiling a wonderful new canvas, eyes wide and astonished and every piece of skin revealed got stroked and kissed and tasted. Tension built, electric and wild—when Dean pulled his boxers off at last, Jerry was sure it'd only take one more kiss to make him come. 

Ignoring how much he wanted to, Dean wouldn't let Jerry do the same for him; he took his clothes off carefully and laid them out like he needed them close so he could bolt. Jerry frowned but figured Dean was probably the kind of guy whose relationships generally consisted of 'hey that was great, see ya round.' Well, not anymore. Jerry let a slow smile ease across his lips and Dean huffed. "What? You were so sure of this?" 

Jerry shook his head. "No, not at all. Man, I was hoping so hard for this, you don’t even know."

"A little bit, I do," Dean said and lowered his head to Jerry's." I…I'm not real sure how all this works but if you don’t mind—"

"Dude, do what you want and I'll let you know what I remember."

Dean laughed, low and sweet and intimate as a kiss. "Okay. Deal," and he did kiss Jerry and Jerry followed his lead. It was…it was too hot. His dick jerked hard in the little space between them, right against Dean's dick, bumping and catching in not enough slick but it was still good. He felt like he was drowning and gasped for breath and Dean took it for a signal.

"Okay, okay…yeah…" Dean started a languid fucking motion, sliding back and forth and repeating the rhythm with his tongue, in and out of Jerry's mouth in an unmistakable dance. Felt a bit like he was being fucked from both ends—the thought made him clench, groan and grab the first thing he could. His fingers dug into the soft muscle of Dean's ass, gripped and pulled, nails digging in and Dean apparently thought that was good. Another hot pulse of slick and he was sliding freely against Jerry, bumping and skipping over his abs.

"Fuck, you're like a fucking brick wall, only not, y'know—painful," Dean groaned. 

"Your sex talk—not good—" Jerry felt everything click into place as Dean laughed into his shoulder, and then laughter melted into moans and it was, it was perfect, "perfect," he whispered. 

"God, yeah. Just…just this? Dean moaned. "If it's all…fuck, all I ever get…"

"Don't say that," Jerry growled, and reached between them, barely getting the both of them in his hand but they were so close to the edge that it didn't take more than him tightening his grip to get Dean coming, and between the hot, slippery feel of come and the noise Dean made, it was barely seconds before Jerry added to the thick mess covering him, gluing him to Dean. Jerry moaned—and laughed, happy because fuck, it felt so good and just knowing he could have more of this, more of sex and more of Dean and just…god, _touching,_ holding…

Dean mumbled against his shoulder, his mouth pushed tight into the skin. 

"What?"

"Leggo, ya fuckin cuddler, gotta clean up."

"No, nope, feels too good. Not moving."

"Okay, but when we wake up in the morning stuck to everything, I get first dibs on punching you in the head."

"God, hot and violent, how lucky am I?"

Jerry drifted off to the feel of Dean giggling against him, good blackmail material, that….

>[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000qtbps/g350)  


Jerry yawned, rubbed his face against really soft sheets that smelled good…he rolled over and opened his eyes, and frowned for a moment when an unfamiliar ceiling swam into view. The frown flowed into a grin as everything from the night before came back—like, having the very best sex he'd ever known, followed by the best sleep he'd ever known, and the only thing that could top that would be…more.

He stretched wide, happily and contentedly yawning until it struck him that something was off. He shouldn't have had so much room to stretch out in…he flopped a hand around where Dean should have been. Frowned a little—he distinctly remembered spreading out pretty much on top of Dean. The guy must be a ninja to get out of bed without waking him. And that worried him a bit, Dean not being there….

Jerry scrambled out of bed, stepping into his boxers before heading towards the kitchen where distinctly agitated voices were coming from—Dean, and someone else?

Dean sounded unhappy and Jerry tensed. Shit, that better not be about Dean regretting the best night of Jerry's life…he heard Dean snap, "No. Yes. I _know_ I'm screwing it up, all right? I wanted him to have. Shit. A new life, a happy one. It's your fault this happened. You're the one put me here."

"I asked you where you wanted to go and you said 'someplace better'."

"You were supposed to know! Better wasn't supposed to be where Sammy was."

"Your mind was screaming 'Sam' the whole time and I was momentarily confused. And yes, I made a mistake."

"Great. Just. Great. You were confused and now here I am, ruining his life again. He thinks he _wants_ this mess. He doesn't want it, if he knew he wouldn't want it and that means I forced...fuck. What the hell _happened to us?"_

The other speaker crossed the kitchen and into Jerry's view… it was that John Constantine clone. Fucking Constantine? What the fuck—so Dean _did_ know him. Was Dean playing him? Dean was using him, the bastard. He was cheating on John Constantine. Or with John Constantine, either way, Jerry was going to gut that faithless bastard like a fish—figuratively speaking. _Maybe._

Jerry was inhaling a rather loud and furious breath when John Constantine caught sight of him in the hallway and looked…mildly surprised. "Oh, well. Hello. You're no doubt wondering what I'm doing in Dean's kitchen, talking about you."

"Yes, you could say that," Jerry said, and marveled at his calm, sorely tested when Dean jumped a foot and went a mottled red and white. Cheating asshole.

John Constantine cocked a rather bird-like look at him, fixing Jerry with eerily blue eyes—it was so much the flat, creepy, stare of a bird. He said again, but slower this time, "Hello. You're no. Doubt. Wondering. Wha—"

"Cas, shut up," Dean moaned. 

Cas—shock hit Jerry like a taser. "I _know_ that name, your name—wait, that's not right. Your name's Castiel. And…how the hell do I know this?"

"I probably mentioned it before, he's my—my—cousin," Dean said at the same time Castiel-Constantine said "—brother."

"Really?" Jerry hissed when Dean had the nerve to echo Jerry. Jerry broke off to glare even harder at Dean. "Fuck you, Dean", he snarled. "I'm not some convenient piece on the side. You should have told me you were involved. You made me into a fucking cliché, you bastard."

"It's not like that," Dean squeaked, a sound surprising in a man his size. Castiel gave Dean a wondering glance and then trained his blank, blue eyes on Jerry. 

"No," Castiel said. "I'm afraid it's much worse." Dean whipped around to glare at Castiel, his mouth working. With a visible effort, he managed to contain himself.

"Cas, not helping."

Worse? What could be worse? "Tell me what's going on—right now," Jerry shouted over the both of them, and the both of them shook their heads, like tandem bobble-heads and that made Jerry impossibly angrier—the movement screamed how close they were, how obviously they had history together. Jerry was beyond furious, felt like he was shut out, just when he'd thought that he'd made a connection like that with Dean….

"I swear, Sam, this whole thing, you don't want to know. I'm sorry Cas," Dean said. Cas looked back at Dean, a heavy sort of resignation pulling down the corners of his eyes, his mouth, and making him look exhausted. He nodded and Dean said again, "I'm sorry" but now he was speaking to Jerry and Jerry raised his hands against Dean. He didn't want to hear some half-assed apology, some weak, useless declaration of what, friendship gone awry; of Dean falling on the spur of the moment and how it'd never happen again? Jerry hated how much it hurt, hated the tears he felt welling. God—why couldn't he be armed right now?

Dean nodded like he'd made some decision and yanked the stupid necklace he always wore off his neck and dropped it. Ground the little glass cylinder wired to the leather strip against the floor until it smashed. Jerry was shocked—he thought that Dean treasured that thing, what was the point of—

+

Jerry picked himself up off the floor.

+

Rubbed his head.

Jerry…wait, not Jerry. He was hit with another wave of disorientation, not enough to drop him and knock him out—again—but it took Sam a second to pull his brain cells together and realize what the hell was going on—had gone on. He saw Castiel's impassive face, the sorrowful, frightened look on Dean's and felt—betrayed. 

"You—Jesus—you bastard. You fucking sick, fucking _bastard._ You—you—bastard." Sam turned to Castiel. "Get me the hell out of here—anywhere but here."

"Sam—please—"

He ignored Dean, rounded on Castiel. "You put me anywhere, you hear? Just make sure there's a country between me and— _him._ In the _real_ world." Sam glared indiscriminately around the kitchen, Dean's apartment. Looking anywhere but at the man. Ignored Dean when he called his name again, just snapped at Cas, "Now."

Castiel spread his hands, palms up and said, "As you wish."

Before he could call the angel on cheesy movie references, Sam yelped—or tried to. He felt like Cas had thrown him thrown head-first through a wall made of semi-melted marshmallow. He gulped, and waited for the rocking sensation in his brain and gut to settle. When his sight cleared again he cursed—he was standing facing a fireplace in a room that looked like that cabin they'd holed up in right before his senior year, that time Dad had needed to recover from a surprise appendectomy. Sam peered harder into the dust filled gloom, and realized it didn't just look like it, it _was_ that cabin. He cursed harder and more creatively. No way was he staying, not in a place where Dean could find him, no way. Fuck Dean and his—

Castiel was giving him the cocked-head, bird-gaze thing with an added layer of sad, or regret…something. Sam got it.

It didn't matter where he'd landed; Dean wasn't going to look for him. It should have felt like relief, but it didn't.

 

Sam exhaled; something hot was twisting in his stomach, building behind his eyes. His hands twisted into tight fists at his side. His voice failed him before he finally managed to spit out, "Can you take those memories away, the way you took my real memories? Or will they fade away since it wasn't really my life…?" Saying it felt like a lie, Jerry didn't _feel_ separate, Jerry was him, or Sam was that guy…a happier person, a version that Sam could have been in some other life. He laughed, or tried to. It broke into something too close to a sob, remembering the why of his happiness. He rubbed his hands over his face. "Will they fade?"

Castiel looked thoughtful, answered slowly, "Your 'real' memories were never gone, they were overwritten by a spell that Dean caused to be cast. But yes, I can destroy your memories of that life if you wish. I warn you, you'll feel the loss. Because you were you, they are your memories, just a slightly different life, and a different name. Of course, I can overwrite them easily, with a spell, the way Dean did. The spell would need to be maintained, you see, so it couldn't be used against you, or broken the way—"

"Cas—" Sam grabbed his forehead, trying to keep the raging headache hammering at his brain at bay. "—okay, okay. Just, please. Shut up."

When he looked up again, Cas was gone. 

Of course. Sam sighed, and looked around the place he'd be living in the foreseeable future. The cabin looked like it hadn't been inhabited since Dad and Dean and he'd last been there. Great. That meant no maintenance, no electric, no water… just what he needed to take his mind off the fucked up place he'd been. Nothing like starving and dying of thirst in the dark to put things in perspective. 

Sam had to laugh, sure that Dean would have plenty to say about that…and the laugh died out.

Right. 

He turned around, scraping his hair back from his face as he took stock. The place was dark, old sheets or drop-clothes were nailed over the windows, but it wasn't hard to see the dust and cobwebs dripping from every corner and overhead light and the cabinets and…just everywhere. He walked deeper into the L-shaped room, the short leg of the room holding the kitchen and the living area and bathroom in the longer side. Memory led him to open the door next to the bathroom. Just as he thought, it opened to a bunk house style bedroom. "Dibs on the bottom," he muttered and wondered if he'd actually be able to sleep on the narrow bunk. He dragged the thin mattress out the front door and set it on the grass to air out. 

He walked into the kitchen, turned the faucets on and was pleasantly surprised when clean water ran out. On a whim, he flipped the switch on the wall and the overhead light stuttered on. He blinked. Electricity—oh. Cas. He opened a sagging cabinet door and grinned at the full pantry, Lucky-charms and dozens of cans of SpaghettiOs. He laughed out loud. Apparently Castiel took his shopping list for Sam's groceries from Dean's brain. 

He smiled; let himself smile, even though it was about Dean.

Later that evening, sitting on the porch and wolfing down a bowl of Lucky-charms swimming in ice-cold milk, he let himself think about…most of what happened.

Okay, so. Dean had once again taken it on himself to decide what was good for Sam. Only then Cas and he had fucked up. Hell, it wasn't enough for Dean to fuck with his memory, he'd tried to put him somewhere else in time, in some other place, and even _then_ the asshole couldn't leave him alone. Dean and his needy, grasping, greedy demands on Sam's life, even when he held out the promise of starting over, he shit all over it. 

He'd never hated anyone as much as he hated Dean in that moment. 

He totally ignored sense memories of Dean curled into that space between Sam's jaw and his shoulder, moaning—the flash of heat it sent up his spine was ignored and faded as quickly as it came. Fucking bastard.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000qz4q9/g350)

Of course, his damn brother couldn't leave well enough alone. Not long after he'd made a pretty good start on making the place livable, and he had a few moments to spare, to breathe in, Dean started texting him. Not personal shit, just—'are you alive' type texts, the kind they'd shoot each other on hunts. Sam didn't really welcome the texts or the reminders of their everyday, _real_ lives. Mostly Sam didn't answer and Dean didn't really sweat him but still….

He worked. He swept and washed and scraped and caulked and did it day after day after day… until there came a day that he just couldn't take the not knowing why anymore. He prayed for Cas and only had the one word for him when Castiel appeared suddenly, toe-to-toe with Sam and fiercely blue eyes full of sympathy…"Why?"

Cas answered immediately, knowing exactly what Sam asked. "He thought you could have a clean start. A new life."

"And…Jake…Andy, Ava?" Sam blinked hard, swallowed the sharp thing that'd lodged in his throat, his voice a dry croak when he went on, "And Jess? What was that all about? Does he hate me, fuck; does he hate me that much?"

Cas looked stricken. "No! That—that was what could have been if Jerry hadn't. Hadn't died in that universe, you understand? No, you don't…that man died and left a slot that held the option of being filled. You see, there are nearly endless possible universes with endless possibilities of you. This one had seemed perfect, there was no Dean and the you that had been there was gone. So…I'm sorry."

"Wait…" Sam stared at Castiel, trying to process…"There are universes where there's no me and no Dean? Where we're alone, always?" He stopped and licked his lips. Okay, that obviously was not the most important thing about what Cas was trying to tell him—it just felt like it. "So, he didn't know."

Cas shook his head. "No, of course he didn't. He just hoped you'd be happy." 

Sam gasped out a laugh, "Well, I guess I get why he was so trashed after that djinn thing. He was so fixated on me being happy that time, he almost died for it." Sam laughed again, not really aware that tears ran too. "That's a real bad habit of his." Sam wiped his eyes. "Asshole."

"That has always been Dean's problem. His firm belief in his own lack of worth." 

Sam nodded and when he lifted his head again, Cas was gone.

+++

Sam was following the shallow river behind the cabin he next time Cas came. Walking along the damp sand reminded him of the day at the ocean, and how Dean had looked, embarrassed but secretly pleased with himself in his cheap swim trunks. That memory led into another, how Dean would sometimes take his coffee sweet and light. The way that Sam took his. How he'd sip at it, make a face, then smile. Not at Sam—Jerry—Sam, but at some memory of his own, Sam guessed…he remembered how horrified Dean had been when Jake— _Al—_ came to the door that first time….

Sam remembered too, how much he'd liked them, his roommates, how close he'd felt to them. He'd liked the real version of them, too. At first. Before Jake had ruined his life and Dean's beyond all repair. Sam stared out through the trees and wiped his nose—running because he was fucking sick and tired of crying. 

He remembered knowing so deeply and completely that he was gay. There'd been no question, just like he hadn't really questioned his instant attraction to Dean…and what the hell had Dean been doing there anyway? Had he been there to protect the spell? He could have done it from this 'verse. Stayed away so Sam could have had a chance at a real life…except…Sam remembered too, how lonely and lost he'd felt. How loved he'd felt when Dean walked in the door. 

"Damn it, damn it!" He screamed and fired handfuls of rocks into the trees on the opposite shore, trying to blow off the prickly energy boiling under his skin. He yelled again, the tock-crack of rocks hitting the trees not doing a damn thing to simmer the rage and confusion bubbling through him. "Why'd you do it, Dean?"

"Fuck him." Fuck Dean for dredging up feelings better left buried, fuck himself for wanting it…"What the hell am I going to do?" he whispered to nothing. Louder, he said, "Tell him to come." Sam folded his hands in front of him and didn't exactly pray, but didn't exactly _not_ pray. "Tell him I want him to come. Bring him if you can," he said, and the sound of dozens of wings broke behind him.

"He's not in very good shape. He blames himself." 

"He should," Sam shouted, wanting and sadness forgotten for a moment, "This is all his fault."

"Sam," Cas said. "Sam…."

Sam spun on his heel, sprinted towards the cabin. "Forget it, forget I said that."

+++

Sam held a bottle of Everclear he'd found under the kitchen sink in his hand. It hadn't taken much to fuck him up pretty good—turned out the linoleum on the kitchen floor was surprisingly comfy. He argued with himself, about the situation, about Dean.

"It was somethin' you're supposed to get over in grade school," he slurred. The stuffed squirrel he'd found under the sink as well said nothing, just gazed at him with its wise, beady black eyes. "That stupid crush disappeared, 'member, right after you got that messy hand job from whats'ername , junior high. Right? Yeah. Then we were all ' _fuck you_ Dean, don’t need you and your stupid hot ass'. Remember?" 

The squirrel continued to say nothing; it gave him a sage look. Of course it remembered. "You reme-remem…you freak, hiding in the bathroom, rubbin' one out, wishing…Dean. Stupid squirrel. Stupid fuckin' enabling squirrel…god, I'm so fuckin' drunk," he confided in the squirrel, the kindly, compassionate squirrel, "Last time I got this drunk, was what, sixteen, seventeen? I almost told." He held his finger over his lips, "Ssshhhush. Almost told Dean, jerked off in the bed and knew he was listenin' in the next bed, knew it. For a second…" 

Sam staggered to his feet, spread his arms and yelled at the squirrel. "An' I was right, wasn't I? Did want me, look how he took advantage of me, tha dickface. Molested me when I couldn’t really give infroned, imfromed…give real consent, right? Right? Oh fuck you," he told the skeptical beady eyes. 

He dropped back to the floor and sipped some more toxic, noxious brew. Dropped the bottle as enlightenment came; sharp and painful like a lightning strike. "Oh god…It was _me—_ I forced him. I made him and he gave it to me, because he's…damn it. Fuck!"

Sam kicked the bottle and watched it spin across the floor. "Was me all the time." He was out before his head hit the floor.

+++

"Cas, bring Dean, please. I need to talk to him. Promise, just talk, that's all."

Cas didn't come, not that Sam really expected him to. He was sure Castiel had business of his own, and after being summoned and ignored a bunch of times, even angelic patience had to give. But not long after begging for Cas to being him his brother, Sam walked out of the cabin one morning and there he was. His brother.

Dean was standing in the yard, a look on his face that Sam found hard to interpret. "You all right, Sammy—Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Come on up, Dean."

Dean sidled up to the porch, trying to give Sam a wide berth. "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry. I swear to god, I'm so fuckin' sorry."

"I know, shut up about that. I'm not. Shit. It's not your fault. Okay? I'm the one who's sorry. It was all my fault."

"No it wasn't. But Sam, you should have seen yourself, you were…you were happy. More than that, you were— like the person you should have been all along. Not perfect, right, but. Ready to be happy." Dean shrugged, smiled, then the smile slid off his face. "But I had to go and ruin it for you, like I always do."

"You know, that world wasn't so different, Dean. I mean, yeah, it was different, but parts of it were the same. Like, um, me liking guys. I mean, I skew a little more—a lot more—towards girls but, ah… I'm, yeah. More than okay with guys. And you were the reason for that. No, wait," Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's sleeve at his horrified look. 

"Not like that…I. Jesus. I'm doin' this all wrong. " Sam scrubbed his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up wildly all over, and Dean smirked a bit, before sliding back into the pained look he'd been wearing since appearing. "I've had some degree of crush on you, since—shit, since I realized that Lion-O was just a cartoon but it didn't matter because I had a real life hero right there. And even once I realized that you were actually a flatulent, foul-mouthed, asshat of a jerk, I still loved you."

Dean gaped at him, eyes fluttering like he was blinking out Morse code. "Yeah? I mean—'m not flatulent—"

"So," Sam went on like Dean hadn't spoken. "We need to talk about this. I mean it, Dean— _talk—_ not you tell me what you think is right for me. Okay?"

Dean nodded. "When you…hooked up with that Ginny girl, I thought, damn not again."

"I know what you thought, okay—"

"No, you don't. I wasn't worried she'd hook you on some… civilian version of demon blood. No, I thought. Fuck, thought I'd lost out again. I almost had it and I lost you again to her."

"Oh, hell no," Sam said. "She wasn't…she really was trying to help me, you know."

"God, I know," Dean said. " I was jealous. I was so jealous."

Sam smiled at him. "Really?"

"Dork," Dean said. 

 

He invited Dean to stay for dinner, and Dean did all the cooking, making hamburger patties out of the meat Sam found in the freezer, and cooking it on the grill they found, miraculously whole and not too rusty, under the porch. It was good, and after dinner Sam told Dean goodnight, and shut the door on the sound of fluttering wings. 

They talked on the phone, not about anything important: hunter gossip, everyday bullshit, just—stuff, but then Dean called with a request for help on a simple salt and burn; it was more a request for company than actual help and Sam knew it. Still, Sam loaded up a bag, and hiked out to the main road, to where Dean had parked the Impala. "No angel express?" he asked Dean.

Dean shot him a look liked he'd suggested playing golf with kittens as balls. "You think I'd let him air express my car anywhere?"

It was just as Dean described—a simple salt and burn, ancient bones that caught without much trouble in a coffin so rotted it fell apart under their shovels—best kind.

After they'd put down the ghost and helped themselves to the beers Dean had had the foresight to load in the trunk, talk moved to Bobby, and how unimpressed he'd been by what Dean had done. Where he'd stashed the Colt after he'd shot Lucifer with it and derailed the apocalypse. Why Cas still came when Dean called…but not a word about the big thing that'd happened in Jerryverse. 

Dean snagged a motel room in town and Sam called Cas for a ride back to the cabin.

+++

He was standing where the sun hit the cabin wall most of the day, printouts featuring home repairs clutched in his hand. He squinted against the sun, eyeballing the roof, when he heard the throaty rumble of the only other home he'd ever known. He stood, eyes fixed on the roof, until Dean was at his back, peering over his shoulder.

"So. Fixing the place up. Making it a real…a real home. That's, uh. That's good, Sam. You should have your own place…is this legal?"

Sam laughed at that, laughed so damn hard his gut hurt, and tears came to his eyes, laughed until he was wheezing for breath and Dean laughed along with him, not as hard but still—laughing. He smiled when Sam staggered to a stop against the cabin's wall, and shrugged. 

Sam relaxed against the wall, the stored warmth soaking into his back. "When the fuck did we ever worry about what was legal, dude?" and Dean flushed a deep, deep red. "Anyway, you don't have to worry— it is. Kind of. Anyone checks, this is my place, lock, stock, and faked papers. If anyone bothered. Bobby's got interesting friends."

Dean smiled. "I'm glad. I mean, this is kinda off the beaten path for a guy like you to retire, I always figured, I don’t know, college town or something—"

"Retired? Who the fuck said anything about retiring? So we iced Lucifer—there's a lot of residual crap to be cleaned up, you know that."

"Well…what's this then?"

Sam tilted an exasperated look at Dean. "You do know, don’t you, that most hunters have a home base? A place to regroup, stock up supplies and shit…not everyone lives out of motels and storage units. That was Dad's thing."

Dean opened his mouth like he was about to protest, and then, shrugged. "Yeah. I'm glad for you. So. Just stopped by since I was in the area, yeah."

"I was thinking of adding real bedrooms on this thing, opening up the kitchen, stuff like that. Come on in and I'll show you what I'm thinking—you can tell me if I'm full of shit or not."  
"I—yeah? Okay. Sure, lemme take a look—"

+++

A couple of bottles of Miller later, they were sitting almost shoulder to shoulder on the porch. Sam pulled a beer from a plastic bucket full of mostly water at that point, passed the dripping bottle to his brother. "I guess I get why you did what you did. I just can't begin to believe you did it without asking. No, strike that—that's pretty much your SOP. Just…" he took a long, deep swallow. "The other thing. You know."

"Sam, fuck. Don’t ask me, okay? Please. I'm a…you said it, right? When you woke up. Sick fucking bastard. " He drew his hand back to throw the bottle at one of the trees on the edge of the yard and Sam locked on to his wrist and stopped him. "Oh, right," Dean gave him a twisted little smile. "You recycle?"

"Asshole. Look, if it escaped your notice, I was the one doing the chasing. Slow motion and pathetic as it was. Anyway, I had a new life, a new me…and I still chose you. I think I was pissed off that I did," Sam laughed. Maybe it held a bitter tinge, but what the hell, he thought. You had to laugh. Life.

Dean shook his head. "Don't say that, Sam. It's not your fault."

Sam gave Dean a long, level, Castiel-style look, weighing his chances—deciding pro and con. "Fuck it." He grabbed Dean by the back of the neck, pulled him in, covered his mouth with his own. A kiss. That was all, one kiss and then he'd know if he was crazy or if he was…well, crazier.

Dean was a plank and Sam figured that he'd fucked the pooch big time but—

"Sam, shit, Sam…" Dean came scrambling off the porch, practically throwing himself into Sam's lap and any fears, any reservations Sam might have had, vaporized. It was gratifying—fuck, it was almost frightening—the way Dean just lost it. He unraveled under Sam's mouth like he'd never been kissed before. It was different kissing Dean now than when he'd kissed him as Jerry. No matter how much Dean might have wanted it back there with Jerry, Sam could tell now that Dean had been holding back, out of guilt probably, likely. Definitely. But now…fucknhell. 

Sam let the heat take him. Let it grow until he was hard, and desperate, craving everything and the slightest, most infinitesimal last bit of guilt he had was just—gone, like snow on a hot skillet.

He stood, yanked Dean to his feet and pulled him inside the cabin. "I'm going to, y'know, take your clothes off?"

"Asking, or telling?" Dean had the nerve to leer, like it was a joke. Sam growled, grabbed Dean's shirt in his hand and yanked it roughly over his head. "Hey! Ouch!"

Sam gave him an evil grin, and tossed the shirt as far as he could—let Dean try to slip out on him, he have to find his god damn clothes first…He worked Dean's zipper down like it was after a hunt and this was triage—zero sexiness to it but still, by the time Dean's jeans dropped to his ankles he was hard, a dark spot where the tip pressed against the worn fabric of his boxers. Sam stared, amazed that sight was fucking sexy as hell. Sam slowed—the realization that this was happening hitting him like a punch to the heart. He eased the boxers down, watched Dean's stomach jump as they slid slowly down his thighs. 

"Jesus, Sammy, holy fuck…" 

Sam sighed, dropped down and first rubbed his cheek on the smooth, warm swell, then swiped his tongue over the tight skin of Dean's dickhead. He did it quick, sort of testing himself, but when Dean groaned like he was dying, Sam flattened his tongue and licked harder, slower—it surprised him, how much he liked it…liked the feel of precome thick and slippery on his tongue, then the taste, sort of sweet but not, salty but not…he kept tasting and thinking until Dean wacked him in the side of the head. "Stop fucking around, damn it."

Sam pulled off, trying hard not to laugh. "See, that's your problem, you're so fuckin' impatient—"

"You sure, Sam? You sure about this?" Dean's face went all soft at the edges as he looked down at him and it made Sam's stomach flip, pleasantly. 

"Needy bitch," Sam smiled when Dean snorted. "Yes, I'm sure." And pumped Dean a few times to emphasize his point. And to watch his face flush, his eyes go dark. Make him fall apart a little. 

Dean smirked like he knew what Sam was thinking, and just pushed through Sam's hand in a long, lazy thrust and fuck, Sam thought that was hot….

Dean pulled away and let himself drop back on the couch, one leg on the floor and the other propped against the back and Sam wondered if he had any idea how it looked. He shivered when Dean wrapped his own hand around his dick, stroked slow, one long pull after another, and the little smirk faded into narrowed eyes and half-open mouth, the tip of his tongue darting out every time his palm swept over the leaking head. "C'mon, Sam…before I…" Dean squeezed, and hissed, arched as a long string of pre-come rolled out of his slit and dripped to his belly. 

Sam watched it greedily and licked his lips, wanting to taste again but wanting more, too. He flung his stuff to wherever he'd flung Dean's. He hopped on one leg, trying to kick his boxers off, and Dean giggled softly. Sam stopped, mouth open. That giggle brought a flood of memories, Jerry memories, and they were all good ones. He grinned, and did a careful, controlled collapse on Dean, flattening their dicks between them. "Hey, Sex."

"What? God, shut up. You're not going to talk through this, are you?"

"Naw…you're gonna be making too much noise to hear me anyway."

Dean gaped, his eyes going wide and Sam couldn't help it, he kissed him again, hot and wet, until Dean was arching under him, begging him to touch, to fuck, to do something, for fuck's sake. "Patience…" Sam smiled, the smile pressed against the smooth skin above Dean's collarbone. Sam laved a long, slow, and thorough lick over skin smooth and sweet as candy, licking until he just had to nip, just a little. Dean yelped, and groaned—his hips jerked, rubbed his dick across Sam's stomach. The slick feel of pre-come warm against his skin made Sam shiver, he left his own trail in the soft crease of Dean's thigh, and it felt so good Sam did it again, and again, until he was fucking against Dean, slipping smoothly along of the cut of Dean's hip. "Good, that's good," he moaned, took Dean's dick in his hand because he wanted Dean to feel that good, too. 

Dean's dick fattened up in his hand, getting a little thicker, a little longer, throbbed and slicked the cage of Sam's hand—the spike of lust that hit Sam made his toes curl and his balls ache, he moved faster, pressing down against his hot skin, shuddering when Dean started moaning non-stop, snapping his hips and driving his dick faster through Sam's fingers. Dean kept begging Sam to make him come and Sam pulled away, slid down to catch Dean's dick in his mouth.

Dean howled, "No"— came like he'd been electrocuted. The head of his dick wedged itself in Sam's throat for a few long seconds and filled Sam's mouth, his throat with come….

Sam sucked him until Dean hissed and pulled Sam back with a fistful of his hair. "You…you."

Sam leaned back, his dick twitching, his balls tight. "I'm gonna come on you, s'at okay?" he groaned and Dean just stared at Sam's hand working furiously over his dick. 

"Fuck, yeah, Sam, show me—"

Sam cursed. Fisted his dick hard, fast and they both moaned when he came in long spurts on Dean's belly, his chest, his dick… Sam leaned back, breathing like he'd run a race, and dragged his thumb through the mess glinting on Dean's belly, rubbed it into his skin until Dean slapped his hand away. 

"Freak. I need a shower—gross." But his fingers followed the path of Sam's thumb, slowly, in a way that if Dean was anyone else Sam would say tenderly…but that was crazy talk.

+++

Cas found them the next morning, sitting side by side, shoulders touching as they sipped hot coffee. Bare-chested, jeans barely zipped and snapped because there wasn't anyone else but them in the woods—well, now there was an embarrassed angel but he should have known better. Checked out the lay of the land before dropping himself into it.

Sam lifted his head lazily and gave Cas a slow smile, "Hey, Cas. G'morning." He raised his mug to the angel, his smile grew into a border-line leer.

Cas tilted his head. He gave Sam a narrow-eyed, purse-lipped look. He bet Castiel was seriously rethinking that memory thing right about now…if he'd landed a few hours earlier, odds are he'd be burning his own eyes out.

Dean rubbed at a bright red spot on his hip, just barely visible over the drooping waistband of his jeans and blushed a little. Go figure Dean would be the abashed one, Sam thought. For himself, screw that—he deserved this. He deserved a break for helping kill the devil and avert the apocalypse. So, yeah, not so much with the feeling guilt. The only thing he felt bad about, what he missed, were Jerry's friends and parts of Jerry's life…Sam hoped that they got over Jerry's disappearance okay, hoped they didn't think the worst but he wasn't going to ask Cas, and there was no way he'd try and find out and anyway….

Anyway, he had Dean. Dean, whose eyes wrinkled at the corners from the embarrassed smile he was trying to hide with the mug, the morning sun glinting off stray blond hairs scattered through the brown—and a few gray ones here and there but no way in the world was Sam about to point them out to his brother…Sam exhaled. Yeah. 

He was going to be just fine.

9-9-2012

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000r32fk/)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the samdean_otp mini bang 2012, where it posted with additional beautiful art and a fanmix by delugedpapercup.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Revision | written by roxymissrose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998949) by [Tipsy_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty)




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